


Smoke and Mirrors

by beeftony



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-10-03 05:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 207,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeftony/pseuds/beeftony
Summary: Ciri is reunited with a face from her past, who needs help getting out of a bad deal. There's just one problem: she's supposed to be dead.





	1. A Favor for a Favor

**Author's Note:**

> I got a lot of positive responses to the last story I published in this fandom, and I'm ready to start publishing this one. It's a fair bit darker, and delves heavily into book continuity. If you're unfamiliar with something, you can probably find it on a wiki or by googling it, but you can also just ask me and I'll do my best to answer. Chapters will be released once a week, on Sunday. I've got nine written so far, which should give me a decent buffer. In the meantime, I welcome your feedback.
> 
> One other disclaimer: because The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is a choice-and-consequence based RPG, anything related to this story that references events from that game will be based on choices I made in my playthrough. You're welcome to talk about how you went with a different choice, but I'm not looking to get into any discussions about which one is most ideal. Especially the ones dealing with relationships. Just a heads up.

Lightning flashed through the window, briefly illuminating the tavern while the rain poured mercilessly outside. Just as the thunder boomed a moment or two later, the door opened and in staggered a young ashen-haired woman, clutching a bloody gut.

The barkeep and two patrons stood up, while a third remained calmly seated. He was bald, clad in yellow robes, with eyes that were far more piercing than the rest of his features would suggest. They made eye contact just before she collapsed to the floor and began staining it with blood.

Though they had been quick to help just a second earlier, the three of them took a step back, eyeing the young woman cautiously. She was still breathing, and barely conscious. The man stood up, making his way over to her with no great hurry.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Someone picked the wrong place to camp.”

She mumbled something, and while none of the others heard the words, the man understood perfectly. He turned to address them.

“Help me get her onto one of the tables. I will require some clean rags, a needle, and some sewing thread. And a bottle of dwarven spirit, if you don’t mind.”

The two patrons helped lift the barely conscious young woman onto the table, hastily clearing away the drinks and food that they had long since finished. The barkeep attended to the bottle of spirit and the rest of the required items.

“Thank you,” said the man. “Now go in the back, if you please. I must concentrate.”

“Are you certain, sir? I was a medic in the last war. I could help.”

“Thank you, but I will manage just fine.”

The three men shrugged and went into the back room of the tavern, leaving them alone.

“I’m going to disinfect the wound,” he told her, lifting up her blouse enough to see the small hole in her abdomen from which blood was currently leaking. “This will sting a bit.”

She maintained enough awareness to give her consent with a few vigorous nods. He poured a bit of the alcohol into the wound, and she screamed, then let loose a long string of curses.

“My, you’ve a well developed tongue,” he said, grabbing one of the rags and placing it over the wound, then pressing into it hard. “I know none who can tell me to plough myself with my own severed cock in such beautiful Elder Speech. Keep pressure on that.”

The woman complied.

“Now, I need you to stay conscious, so talk to me. What is your name?”

“C-Ciri.”

“Very nice to make your acquaintance, Ciri. What happened?”

“Bandits,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Snuck up on me while I was sleeping. Stabbed me in the belly while I lay there, the whoresons. Took my horse, my purse… and my sword.”

“And left you something to remember them by.”

She nodded.

“Once you’ve stabilized I’ll begin with the sutures,” he said. “But we have a little time before that. Tell me, will you be seeking retribution?”

“I just want my things back.” She grimaced and hissed in pain through clenched teeth. “They took all I had.”

“I can tell you where the bandits are.” His voice took on a serene, otherworldly tone, the kind that hid an entire world of meaning behind an inviting curtain just begging its listener to reach out and touch. “I can ensure that you’re back in fighting shape by the time you face them. In return, I’ll need your help with a problem. A problem which, it turns out, concerns these same bandits.”

Ciri opened her eyes a little wider, lucid for the moment.

“Do we have a deal?”

After thinking it over for a few moments, the young woman nodded. “Yes. Yes, we have a deal.”

“Excellent. Now hold still. This next part is going to hurt.”

The smell of seared flesh filled the air as Ciri cried out in agony, and the wound in her belly began to cauterize. At the same time, two marks appeared on her left temple, lit by the same fire, indicating the contract had been sealed.

A minute later, when the pain no longer made her gnash her teeth, she looked up at the mysterious man. “Who are you?”

“I go by many names,” he replied, still speaking in that strange, hypnotizing tone. “Some know me as Master Mirror. Others as the Man of Glass.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she began to drift away.

“You may call me Gaunter O’Dimm.”

* * *

The next day, Ciri awoke in a clean bed above the tavern, still missing all of her belongings. She lifted up her blouse and confirmed that, yes, the scar was really there. The room was not fancy enough to have a looking glass, but after touching her temple she discovered that the arcane marks were real as well. It had not been a dream.

Details of the night before began flooding back into her, and she cursed under her breath. She’d been foolish and careless, and she had paid for it. If she’d gone just a little further up the road, she could have paid for this room herself without getting robbed. At the very least, the bandits had been in too much of a hurry to get away to try taking anything else from her. And her clothes were still in one piece.

The midday sun drifted into the room, and Ciri donned her boots and gloves, which were the only articles of clothing that had been removed. After tidying the bed, a task she never left to servants, Ciri made her way downstairs with a serious appetite.

Gaunter O’Dimm was waiting for her.

“Ah, Ciri! I’m truly glad you’re awake. Come and sit.”

She obeyed, sitting at the table, where a plate of breakfast and a drink had been left there for her, still warm.

“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly. “Not just for the breakfast, either. If not for you I might not have woken ever again.”

“A little gratitude goes a long way,” O’Dimm replied with a knowing smile. “How do you feel?”

“Embarrassed, really. Normally I don’t let bandits sneak up on me like that. I figured no one would be foolish enough to try robbing me in that downpour.”

“Greed overcomes many inhibitions. Even those that relate to robbing a witcher.”

Ciri quirked an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m a witcher?”

“They didn’t take your medallion.”

Her hands went to the cat-shaped medallion that hung on her hip. She wished she still had Vesemir’s medallion. It was far more comforting than this one. She released it and went back to eating her eggs.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Bandits like that have always prowled this area,” he said. “But they haven’t been quite so brazen in a long time.”

“How do you mean? And where is here, exactly? I’m afraid I don’t know how far I wandered after being stabbed.”

“Well, you’re still in Ebbing of course. This is merely a tavern by the road, the only real building for miles other than a small farm a few acres away. The nearest town is Fano, but if you’re that hard up for civilization you could always try the village a few miles up the road. What was the name of it?”

He appeared to deliberate for some time, before an unsettling smile crawled across his features and something dark flashed in his eyes. “Ah, yes. Now I remember. Jealousy.”

Ciri turned white.

“Have I upset you?”

After taking several deep breaths, she finally managed to convince her hands to stop shaking. “Sorry, it’s not you. It’s just…”

“Ah, the village. Well, you needn’t go there anyway. It’s certainly seen better days.”

Her voice was still a little shaky when she replied. “Before I do anything else I must get my things back from those bandits. You said you know where they are.”

“I do indeed. And I trust you remember our bargain?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect this sort of help for free, and I’ve naught to offer you except my services.”

“If half the things I’ve heard about you are true, that should suffice.”

She squinted as she knocked back a sip of her drink. “What do you need me to do?”

“First, the information you require. Fortunately for your mental wellbeing, the gang is not in Jealousy. All gangs in the area have given that place a wide berth since the second Northern War. All you must do is head east for five miles or so. After that, they’ll find you.”

“Living in the forest? What, are they Scoia’tael?”

“I doubt they’d have left while you were still alive were that the case. No, they have a different name.”

“And what name is that?” She took another sip of her drink.

“The Rats.”

Ciri almost choked.

“That’s impossible,” she rasped as soon as she finished coughing, trying vainly to scoop the spilled portions of her drink back up to her mouth before finally grabbing a rag and rubbing her face clean. “The Rats are dead.”

“Certainly that doesn’t preclude another group from taking up their name.”

“I suppose not.”

“Your task is simple. Find the leader of the gang. Then bring them to a trading post twenty miles from Jealousy, tomorrow at midnight. I’m sure you know the one.”

Ciri set her mug down and leaned forward across the table, glaring. This man knew too much to be entirely innocent in this. “How are you sure?”

“You will have the answer to that when next we meet. Or possibly sooner, if you’re clever.”

“And how am I to convince this person to come with me? I’ll be lucky if they don’t kill me as soon as I get near their camp.”

He smiled again. “You’re a capable young woman. Having a bit of rough luck, yes, but nobody’s perfect. I have faith that you’ll figure something out.” He stood, then walked past her. “Until we meet again.”

“Now wait just a—”

She rose and turned around, but he was gone.

* * *

“This is stupid,” Ciri muttered to herself. “Utterly, irredeemably stupid.”

It was bad enough that she had found herself back in Ebbing after so many years. She hadn’t intended to venture so far south, closer to Nilfgaard, but given that the Empire occupied almost all of the Northern Realms at this point there was practically no place she could go without running afoul of some kind of black uniform. And witchers were needed no matter where they went.

Her hands were still shaking. They shouldn’t be. Years had passed since the slaughter she had borne witness to, watching her companions butchered before her very eyes while she watched helplessly, tied to a post. Leo Bonhart was dead, at her hand. She wasn’t in danger anymore.

But her body hadn’t yet realized that. And so she trembled.

It would be easier to deal with her nerves if she had her sword. _Zirael_ always centered her, helped her focus, tamed the fear, even though she had acquired it from the man who was paid by one party to kill her, by another to be delivered alive so she could be flayed, and did neither, exploiting her for his own benefit instead. But thanks to that sword, he had died like everyone else who thought of her only as a tool to further their own ends.

And now it had been taken from her.

The forest was thick, but she remembered it well. Even now. Even though it hurt to recall. Even though her hands wouldn’t stop shaking because every thought led to the same memory. She walked on, knowing how this could end, and hoped she could at least take a few of them with her.

She had fulfilled her destiny already. Did it really matter what happened to her now?

After an hour or so, she saw smoke passing through the canopy, just a few hundred paces away. She didn’t bother sneaking, because even among common bandits, the scouts had likely spotted her already. Thus Ciri walked into the camp, her hands above her head.

There were five of them. Three sat around the fire, roasting a hog on a spit. The other two watched the perimeter, and currently had their bows pointed at her.

“I just want to talk.”

The scout on the right kept his bow trained on her. “So talk.”

“You took something that belongs to me. I’d like it back.”

They laughed.

“And why should we? If you failed to defend your belongings, that’s your own fault.”

“My fault for being stabbed in my sleep? I don’t know what’s changed in the last few years, but the original Rats always faced their prey while they were awake, and armed.”

The other scout laughed. “Shows what you know, you stupid bint. Who’d be fool enough to do that?”

“Horace, shut the fuck up. And give the lady her stuff back.”

The decidedly female voice came from the tent behind the scouts. The scout named Horace lowered his bow, but didn’t lose the sneer. “Why? She someone special?”

“You mean you don’t know who that is? That’s Falka, last surviving member of the original Rats.”

Ciri’s eyes went wide, and she stopped trembling. Instead she went entirely still. No one knew her by that name. No one except…

The apparent leader of the gang stepped out from the tent. She was tall, with blonde hair shorn on the sides and a ponytail in back. She smiled covetously at Ciri. “Falka! Long time no see.”

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. Ciri’s blood froze and she stood there, stunned, staring in utter disbelief. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally convinced her mouth to say her name.

“Mistle?”

* * *

“I’m sure you have questions,” said Mistle once they were inside the tent, alone. She grabbed a bottle of wine and sat on the ground, taking a swig before passing it to Ciri.

She drank a substantial portion of the wine as well. “You could say that.” Ciri shook her head, pressing her fingers into her temples.

“Well? Out with it.”

“You’re dead!” Ciri exclaimed. “I saw Leo Bonhart kill you! He made me look at your guts while they spilled out of you and then he tied me to a post and made me watch while he cut your head off!”

There were tears in her eyes. She made no effort to wipe them away.

“That’s true,” she replied, taking back the wine. “I was dead. But now I’m not.”

Ciri shrunk back. “How do I know you’re really Mistle? You could be a doppler, or an illusion.”

“I think your witcher’s medallion there would be vibrating something fierce if I were an illusion,” the woman claiming to be Mistle replied, reaching out and stroking the medallion with her fingers. “But it’s still as a gravestone. Where’d you get it, anyway?”

“Bonhart. He collected them from witchers he killed. I had another but… it was taken from me.”

“I thought I told them to give you all your stuff back.”

She shook her head. “They did. I lost it a while ago.”

“I see. You mentioned something called a doppler. What’s that?”

“A shapechanger. They can look like anybody, down to copying their thoughts and memories. No one’s really sure how they do it.”

“Alright, I can see how you’d jump to that conclusion. Still, from the time you met me until the time I died, do you remember running into anything like that?”

“Not really. There aren’t many dopplers this far south anyway. They’re native to the land surrounding Novigrad.”

“It’s really me, Falka. I’m really here. And I know you believe me.”

Tears still gathered in her eyes, she shook her head and stared, knowing that she shouldn’t believe, but wanting to desperately. Ultimately passion won out.

“How?”

Mistle smiled sadly. “There’s a story behind that,” she said before drinking more of the wine. “That I don’t want to get into right now. Tell me about you. What have you been up to?”

“Me? Who cares about me? You’re alive!”

“I care, Falka. Tell me.”

“Well, first things first. My name’s not really Falka. It’s Ciri.”

“Ciri? You mean that princess of Cintra or some such that Hotspurn told us about?”

“That’s me.”

“Ha!” Mistle slapped her knee. “No wonder you called him a liar.” She glanced away. “And rode after him.”

“I was stupid. He got killed by bandits a few miles up the road. When I realized what a mistake I’d made I took his mare and rode back to Jealousy to try and stop you from facing Bonhart.” She looked down. “I got there just in time to watch you die.”

“You’d not have stopped us anyway. What happened then?”

Ciri was shaking by this point, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around her knees. “As I said, Bonhart tied me to a post and made me watch while he sawed off all of your heads. Then he took me inside the tavern, made me strip in front of everyone to check me for magical charms, then kept me tied up with a collar.”

The other woman raised her eyebrows when she noticed Ciri’s condition. “Are you okay?”

“No.” The tears flowed freely now, and she rocked back and forth. “Hold me, please. So I know you’re real.”

Mistle did exactly that, embracing Ciri from behind and giving her the wine again.

Over the course of the evening, Ciri related the rest of her tale, about how Bonhart had refused to either kill her or claim the bounty from the Baron of Casedai, but gave her a sword and brought her to an arena. How she got the scar on her face courtesy of Stefan Skellen, the Tawny Owl, who had sent Bonhart after them in the first place. How Bonhart met his end at Stygga Castle, by her sword. And then everything after that.

“Shit,” the other woman summed up rather succinctly when Ciri was done. “Always knew you were more than you let on.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you back then.”

“It’s alright. I forgive you.”

“I still love you, Mistle. I don’t think I ever stopped.”

“I love you too, Fal… Ciri.”

They kissed. It wasn’t the same as when they were younger, two children playing at being adults, showering one another with affection for fun. This was different. But at the same time, it was familiar enough to erase all doubt. This was Mistle. This was real.

The wine bottle was empty, and thus did not spill any contents when Ciri knocked it over as she turned around in Mistle’s embrace to avoid craning her neck. Mistle was busy moving too, her nimble hands weaving deftly under Ciri’s blouse and exploring the skin underneath. She stopped when she reached the scar.

“One of many,” Ciri explained, not caring that the woman underneath her led the gang that had given her that scar. Nothing else mattered now. Only Mistle.

She removed her top entirely, giving Mistle a full view of the scars she’d accumulated over the years. The other woman leaned upward, placing her mouth over one of Ciri’s soft breasts and running over the nipple with her tongue. Ciri moaned, and felt warmth between her legs as Mistle continued her ministrations.

Soft wisps of hot air danced like tiny fires against cool skin as they continued making up for lost time. Sharp claws raked across her back, tracing shallow, evanescent scars like shards of silver moonlight. She let her hair down, and it soon grew soaked with sweat in the warm night as the tension continued to mount.

They separated, and Ciri removed Mistle’s top with practiced ease. She knew what she was doing now. She wasn’t being guided along like some child anymore. Now Ciri knew what she desired.

That didn’t change even when Mistle took control, locking their lips together and rolling over so that she was on top. Ciri let it happen and reveled in exploring the other woman’s skin, the burning, animal _need_ inside her short circuiting the parts of her that would have otherwise questioned this circumstance. That didn’t matter right now. Thinking could wait.

Fire. Blood. Lust. Primal forces weaving a tapestry of subconscious thought that left no room for words. She expressed what she wanted through a series of sighs and moans. Mistle knew her well. Even after all these years.

“Aw, you kept it,” the other woman cooed after removing Ciri’s trousers and confirming that the rose tattoo was still there. She planted a kiss directly on top of it, and Ciri moaned. She was practically gushing down below, and those lips set off fireworks with every touch.

Mistle moved her attention a little to the left, finding her target and slowly, methodically sucking on her clit. As she moved her tongue in circles Ciri sputtered and bucked her hips, unable to contain the mounting ecstasy. It was never like this before. She simply wasn’t ready then. But now she was.

This continued for several minutes. Mistle alternated between sucking her clit, sliding her fingers back and forth, and doing both at the same time, until finally, Ciri burst.

The orgasm exploded through her as the tiny fires burning beneath her skin became raging infernos, spreading through her with a sensation so pleasant it was just shy of painful. Suddenly she seized, leaning back unnaturally far while her lower half remained in the same position. A green aura surrounded her, and she began to babble in the Elder Speech, which Mistle had no way of understanding. To her credit, she did not flee, but simply watched in wonder as Ciri lost control in the most spectacular way.

“ _Gwy’liwch rhag ef sy'n rhoi dy’muniadau! Gwy’liwch rhag y dyn aep wydr_!”

Finally, the glow subsided and the afterglow spread through her like water, cooling the fire to embers and causing her to fall back, serene, and stare at the ceiling in a daze. Mistle quickly cuddled up next to her.

The moment was interrupted by Horace, who stood outside the tent but did not enter, understanding what doing so would cost him. “You alright, Mistle? We heard some kinda demon in there!”

“No demon,” Mistle replied. “Get back to your post; I’ll not be surprised in the middle of the night again by those damn Black Ones.”

Ciri chuckled. “So you aren’t the only ones who ambush people while they sleep.”

“Sorry about that. If only I’d been with them we could have avoided this whole misunderstanding. If you’d like you can punish the ones that robbed you.”

“I’d rather not bother,” she said, snuggling closer. “I just want to stay here with you.”

Mistle wrapped her arm around Ciri, pulling her in close. “So do I.”

They kissed again, and she closed her eyes, content.

“Falka?”

“I told you, it’s Ciri.”

“Sorry. Ciri?”

“What is it?”

“What did you say? When you were spouting all that gobbledygook?”

“ _Gwy’liwch rhag ef sy'n rhoi dy’muniadau. Gwy’liwch rhag y dyn aep wydr_ ,” Ciri repeated. “Beware the Granter of Wishes. Beware the Man of Glass.”

Before Mistle could ask her anything else, Ciri fell asleep.

* * *

Morning arrived, wiping clean the slate of the previous day. Here, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, Ciri could forget about everything other than the warm body that she clung to as tight as she could without waking her.

She didn’t realize how much Mistle’s loss had truly affected her until she had her back. The memories surrounding her were the only ones Ciri cared to remember from that time, when everything she had been promised burned to cinders and she was left to survive on her own. When her world had shattered so completely that she wished to be somebody else, and thus became Falka.

What she felt back then for Mistle wasn’t love. Not really. She just didn’t want to be alone again. Not ever again. Even that turned to ashes in the end.

But things were different now.

A dull throbbing in her left temple reminded her of why she’d set out on this journey in the first place, before she’d become distracted. But there was time. The trading post was twenty miles from Jealousy, sure, but only ten miles from the camp. Even if they left in the afternoon they could easily make it there by midnight. That left plenty of time to catch up, and simply enjoy each other’s presence. She snuggled up closer to Mistle and wished that this moment would never end.

But it did.

“Mmm…” Mistle began to stir. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

They lay there for another few minutes. Finally Ciri broke the silence.

“Mistle?”

“Hm?”

“When did you come back to life?”

“I’m not sure. But it was sometime in the past two years.”

“I see. I was… somewhere else.”

“You told me. Traveling between worlds. The places you must have seen.”

“I could talk for weeks and not tell you all I witnessed,” she said, her hand moving further down Mistle’s stomach and continuing to descend. “But I couldn’t really appreciate it. I was always on the run.”

“We were always on the run back in the day,” Mistle replied just as Ciri’s hand reached her clit. “Mmm. Never stopped us from appreciating things.”

“Yes, but only fleeting things.” Slowly, she slid two fingers inside the other woman, and received a pleased moan for her efforts. “Nothing permanent.”

“That only makes it more special. Permanent things can be taken for granted.”

Ciri began to fondle Mistle’s breasts with her other hand, as she deftly moved her fingers back and forth. Mistle bit her teeth and began to grind against her.

“This feeling, for instance,” she continued. “It only lasts a moment. But it’s special. And it can be had more than once.”

She flipped Mistle around and kissed her, continuing to thrust in and out, occasionally curling her fingers inside her, which elicited a deep groan. Ciri moved her attention to the other woman’s neck, kissing and biting in equal measure. Mistle writhed the entire time, enraptured by Ciri’s touch.

There wasn’t any great trick to it. After a few minutes of this she brought Mistle to climax, and her shrieking woke the whole camp. Mistle once again had to call off the alarm.

“Oh, that was amazing, Little Falcon.”

“It’s Swallow now,” Ciri corrected her.

“What?”

“My name. _Zirael_. It means Swallow.”

“I see. I’m not as learned as you are.”

“It’s not like you didn’t have the opportunity. Your family was rich.”

“As I said, some things you just take for granted.”

“Mm.”

They lay there for a while longer, before finally accepting that no moment lasts forever.

* * *

“Your turn,” Ciri said as she pulled on her boots.

“What’s that?”

“I told you everything that’s happened with me last night,” she explained. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Ah.” Mistle frowned and sat, cross-legged, staring possessively at her. “Very well. I was dead. Now I’m alive. As for what happened in between... I’m not entirely sure how to describe it.”

“Do try.”

She smirked. “Impatient, are we?”

“Mistle,” Ciri said gravely. “Please.”

“Alright.” She sighed. “I made a deal. I got in deep, with someone you _don’t_ get in deep with. He brought me back to life, gave me a new body, helped me set up a new gang, and said he’d come for his payment in two years’ time.” She laughed bitterly. “I actually believed he wouldn’t come to collect. And then you showed up.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Mistle. “And I know there’s no way you recovered from a stab wound in one night on your own. Not to mention…” She pointed to her left temple, where Ciri could make out similar marks to the ones she bore, hidden just underneath Mistle’s shorn blonde hair. “Which leads me to believe you’ve already had the pleasure.”

The dots connected.

“Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“That’s the one.”

Ciri frowned and glanced away. “He wants me to bring you to a trading post. _The_ trading post. The place where it all went wrong. We’re to meet at midnight.”

“I see.”

“Can’t avoid it, can we?”

Mistle shook her head. “He’s not someone you break a promise with.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Come.” She stood up. “There’s still time. I’ll introduce you to the gang.”

* * *

The gang had assembled in a loose formation, by no means a perfect line, but it was to Ciri’s satisfaction. Mistle went down the line and introduced them one by one.

Sheana Glaszwic was, like Mistle, of noble birth. When Nilfgaard took dominion over her family’s land, they had prospered at first, until an unforgiveable breach of etiquette at an imperial ball by her drunken father had blacklisted them for good. The family fell out of favor, and her father fell deeper into drink, eventually hanging himself from a tree that was planted before their family ever settled on the land. Her mother was driven insane and committed to an institution. The house fell into ruin and became worthless. Sheana had simply run away, making use of her education in swordplay to pursue the life of so many fallen nobles. She had been the first recruit.

Faloanthír hailed from Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers, and served as part of a Scoia’tael commando for two wars. When the rest of his commando was dead and he found himself on the run, he chose the life of a brigand, preferring to kill for himself rather than some damned ideal that in reality only served the goals of Nilfgaard. He was instrumental in helping the latest incarnation of the Rats hide in the forest.

Resilda Trevohort had a hideous burn scar covering her entire face in a pattern that reminded Ciri of Eskel. If she had been pretty beforehand, none knew, and she wasn’t in any hurry to enlighten them. Her village was burned by the North, specifically by Lyrian and Rivian partisans led by the White Queen. She had been trapped inside a burning hut and was only saved by the fact that the stone hearth that collapsed on top of her shielded all but her face from the flames.

She’d been an orphan and outcast ever since, and decided that if the world was to going to treat her like a monster, then a monster they would get. According to Mistle, she had limited control over fire, and could either generate it spontaneously or direct the course of an existing blaze. Pyromancers had gotten increasingly rare in recent years, and Ciri suspected that she’d never had anyone teach her to control it. She knew how dangerous that could be, from personal experience.

Then there was Stephanos. Formerly of the Nilfgaardian Imperial Army, Stephanos had fallen victim to a lycanthropic curse and fled in shame. No contract had ever been taken on him, since the army didn’t typically make use of witchers this far south and considered deserters to be an internal matter, be they werewolves or not. According to him, he had sought the aid of a witch specializing in blood magic who had helped him to tame the curse, and since then he had been able to shift form at will, without succumbing to the bloodlust. At least not until he’d gotten hit a few times.

And finally, Horace. Horace was a simple farming man whose life had been shattered by war. His home in ruins, his wife and children dead, he took his bow and his anger and fought his own private war against the unit that burned down his home. Once he had tracked down and killed every last one, he had no idea what to do with himself, and had accepted Mistle’s invitation to join the new version of the Rats.

With the introductions complete, Mistle stood in front of the group and stared hard at them.

“Two of you,” she began, pacing back and forth, “snuck up on Falka here in the dead of night, and made off with her things. Not only that, she was also stabbed in the belly and very nearly bled out until she reached a tavern some five miles from where she’d been camped.”

Ciri had insisted that Mistle still refer to her as Falka in front of the others. Even after everything she’d been through, all the pursuers she’d shaken, she was still sought after by Nilfgaard. And she was understandably uncertain of the loyalty of the bandits in front of her.

“Now, there was no way any of you could have known that she was a member of the original version of the Rats. That said, we don’t rob to get rich. We don’t use cheap tactics. We don’t attack women and we definitely don’t stab them in their sleep. We’re sporting and fair.”

A few of them started to snicker, but she silenced them instantly with a glare.

“Which of you was it?”

Nobody moved or said anything for a few seconds, before Sheana and Faloanthír stepped forward.

“Which of you decided to stab me?” asked Ciri, placing her hands on her hips.

“I did,” Faloanthír replied, but Sheana shook her head.

“He lies,” she said. “Out of some misguided attempt to protect me. I know well what I did. And I am prepared to suffer the punishment.”

Ciri was silent for several moments, debating what any of her mentors would do. Triss would let them go. Yennefer would make them grovel and lick her boots for a few days, before banishing them from her sight. Lambert would behead them both and be done with it . And Geralt… well, even on his good days, Geralt never had mercy on those who stabbed or robbed him.

Still, there was greater discipline on display here than there had been when she was part of the roving gang made of children of contempt. Ciri had surmised that there was still much of that family camaraderie, but it was mainly between those five, with Mistle holding absolute authority. They weren’t even close to equals with her. Other than Ciri, her family was dead.

Aside from which, these were adults. They knew what they were doing far better than children. And so they deserved to be treated accordingly.

“My sword.”

Mistle handed her the sword, which she drew slowly to draw out the tension and let the two thieves sweat.

“Let me ask you a question, Sheana.”

“Yes, Lady Falka?”

“Just Falka will do. Are you pregnant?”

“Am I what?”

“Pregnant. With child. Expecting.”

She stared at the ground. “No, Falka.”

“Look at me.”

Sheana obeyed.

“I ought to make it so you never can,” she said, with a venom that came from a place she thought she’d left behind long ago. She idly twirled her sword, pacing in front of the woman who kept her gaze like her life depended on it. “I ought to spill your guts and watch the piss and shit come oozing out of you. Have you ever seen that? Have you ever seen someone die in their own piss and shit while their guts pour out of them?”

Mistle remained quiet, but her eyes grew visibly wider. Sheana started shaking.

“If you’re going to kill me, please do so quickly,” she said. “I’d hate to go out the way you describe.”

“Answer my question.”

“No, Falka. I haven’t ever seen that.”

“I thought not. You’ve killed a few people in your time, I’m sure. But you don’t really know what death is. You don’t know true misery. I do.”

“I’ve seen it,” Stephanos said suddenly. “Caused it, even. During my, uh… episodes.”

She gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Here is what will happen. In thirty seconds, I will thrust my sword into Sheana’s belly. Exactly as deep as the wound that was dealt to me. If Sheana tries to move, I will take her head. Anyone wishing to prevent harm from coming to her should act now.”

She turned her back and closed her eyes. At the count of ten, she turned around and thrust, and connected with something soft and yielding.

Damn. Someone really had gotten in the way. With the force behind her thrust, the point of the sword should have stopped less than an inch from Sheana’s belly. It was probably that damn elf who wanted to take the blame for her. Ciri opened her eyes.

And saw Mistle.

Her face betrayed no pain, even as Ciri yanked the blade out instinctively. Blood gushed and stained her boots, but Mistle didn’t move.

“Why?”

“Simple,” said Mistle. “Actions taken by members of my gang are my responsibility. And I shoulder the punishment for it.”

“You didn’t used to be so noble.”

She smiled sadly. “And you weren’t always so soft. I know you planned to miss her.”

“You’ve seen right through me.” She sheathed the sword.

“Don’t fret,” said Mistle, lifting up her tunic. Where there had once been a fresh wound there was only a scar. “Like a distant memory.”

Ciri nodded absently and staggered away, her thoughts pinwheeling out of control. Once she was out of sight, she braced herself against a tree and threw up her breakfast.

* * *

The woods were dark and foreboding, even from the road. But it wasn’t the mist or the gnarled branches or the distant howls that unsettled her. It wasn’t the will o’ wisps that tried to tempt them away from the main path, or the hanged bodies of local bandits decorating the side of the road. Ciri wasn’t afraid of any of it.

They had set off on the trail shortly after Ciri had passed her judgment on the thieves, and after she apologized to Mistle, who insisted she had nothing to apologize for. At their current pace, they would arrive at the trading post well before midnight. She wasn’t afraid of what they would find there either.

Ciri wasn’t afraid of the words she had said, or how they were likely to think of her now. She had put on that performance on purpose in order to intimidate them, to teach them a lesson when it came to stealing from sleeping travelers. Mistle’s interference actually made it more effective, and reinforced their loyalty to their leader. None of that scared her.

What frightened Ciri was that she had enjoyed it.

After travelling between worlds for so long, after being reunited with Geralt, Yennefer, Triss, Dandelion, and all her other friends and allies, after defeating the Wild Hunt and saving the worlds from the White Frost, she thought that she had left Falka behind, a distant if unpleasant memory. But something about this place, and all the memories it stirred within her, brought that side of her rushing back to the surface, and what terrified Ciri the most was that she hadn’t even tried to stop it.

“Mistle?”

The other woman looked over at her from her horse. “What is it?”

“What we did back then... the people we stole from, the people we killed... do you regret any of it?”

Mistle’s eyes hardened as she stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with her. “Honestly? No. I regret going after Bonhart, but that’s about it. We were living free. Doing what we wanted.”

“Even though it came at the expense of others?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t care about that then and I don’t care now. What about the things other people gained at our expense? Where was the fairness in that?”

Ciri didn’t answer.

“If you want to feel guilty about it, that’s your business,” she finished. “But I remember how much you enjoyed yourself back then. You still do, I think.”

“You’re probably right.”

 They continued riding in silence.

* * *

They arrived at the trading post a few minutes before midnight. They hitched their horses and waited by the entrance. The streets were eerily empty. True, it was the middle of the night, but the stillness was unnerving. Neither of them spoke.

The postal station was still intact, as were the buildings surrounding it. The memories wracked her again and Ciri shuddered. She wondered how the tattoo artist they’d commandeered, Almavera, was doing these days. She made a mental note to look into that once this was over.

Finally, at exactly the promised time, Gaunter O’Dimm appeared, as if he had always been there.

“Good of you both to make it,” he greeted, rubbing his hands together. “I trust you spent the day making up for lost time?”

“You right bastard,” Mistle snarled. “I asked you to bring me back my Falka, and you send her as your proxy?”

Ciri’s head whipped around to face her. “I was part of your deal?”

“Indeed,” said Gaunter O’Dimm. “And now that we’re all assembled, we can discuss what happens next.”

“What does he mean by that, Mistle?”

Mistle seethed quietly for a minute before answering. “You’re to serve as his proxy and grant me three wishes, so that he may collect his payment.”

“Well now the marks make sense.” She rubbed her temple and frowned. “But how am I supposed to grant wishes? I’m not a genie.”

O’Dimm grinned knowingly and glanced between the two of them. “Ask your old friend Geralt of Rivia. He performed a similar service for me once.”

“What?!”

“Shh.” He raised a finger to his lips. “It’s the middle of the night. Have some courtesy.”

“To hell with courtesy! What did Geralt do for you?”

“He helped me track down someone who tried to avoid paying me,” the merchant answered. “In the end, he was marvelously helpful. I got what I came for and we parted as friends.”

Ciri glared. “That seems bloody unlikely.”

“Believe what you wish. But I never lie.”

“What happens if I refuse?”

He turned to Mistle. “Tell her.”

Mistle looked at her. “If you break your contract with him, he collects the payment from you instead.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mistle. “She’ll do it. Or at least try.”

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “I really must be on my way. You’ll find Geralt in Toussaint, at the Corvo Bianco vineyard.”

And then he was gone.

“Toussaint?” Mistle repeated. “That’s ages away. How are we supposed to get there? And who’s Geralt?”

“An old friend,” she answered, walking over to the horses. “And don’t worry about getting there. Just let me concentrate. I haven’t done this with multiple horses before.”

“Done what?”

“Grab my hand.”

She obeyed, and Ciri closed her eyes. In a flash of green light, both they and the horses disappeared.


	2. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

The Duchy of Toussaint had always seemed straight out of a fairy tale. A palace of exquisite elven architecture loomed large over the landscape, outshining various old strongholds that dotted the foothills of Mount Gorgon by several orders of magnitude, a shining jewel resting atop the city of Beauclair.

The surrounding countryside was no less beautiful, and was protected by wandering warriors known as knights errant, defenders of justice and order who were bound by sacred tradition and always talked like they were auditioning for some outlandish stage production.

A circle of green light appeared in front of the Corvo Bianco vineyard a little after midnight, then dissipated, leaving two women and their corresponding horses in its wake. Ciri had heard something about Geralt finally settling down here, but hadn’t yet visited herself.

“Whoa!” shouted Mistle, as both the horses whinnied in panic. “What the hell was that?”

“Teleportation,” Ciri answered. “I told you I can travel anywhere I want.”

“So why ride around on a horse?”

“Well, I need to know where I’m going, and I can’t carry all my things on my own. Also, doing it creates quite a disturbance, which until recently the Wild Hunt was able to track.”

“But you don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“So this is Toussaint?”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The city of Beauclair was close enough for her to see the holes in its fairy tale façade, as well as the construction efforts aimed at repairing that image. Everybody was, understandably, asleep, and Ciri felt a little tired herself. She unpacked her bedroll from the saddle of her horse and chose a spot in front of the vineyard, after leading the horses into the stable currently occupied by what she assumed was the current Roach.

“Fancy place,” said Mistle, setting her bedroll down right next to Ciri’s. They hadn’t brought a tent, but the night was clear enough that they didn’t need one.

“I agree,” she replied, lying down under the stars. “Somehow I hadn’t pictured Geralt settling down here.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s complicated,” said Ciri. “But I guess you could say he’s my father by choice.”

“Not fond of your real father?”

“An understatement.” She cuddled closer to the other woman. “Geralt’s been there for me a long time. We’re bonded by destiny.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

They lay there like that for a few minutes, waiting for sleep to claim them. Then Ciri heard footsteps approaching, and her hand went instinctively to her sword.

“You know,” said the approaching figure, “we _do_ have a guest room.”

She released the sword and laughed, then sat up. “Yennefer!”

Yennefer of Vengerberg, clad in a black silk nightgown, looking perfect as ever, glared at Ciri with her eyes even as she was unable to stop her mouth from smiling. “Do you have any idea how much racket you create when you teleport that close to someone tuned to magic? It’s a good thing I like you.”

She stood up and embraced the sorceress, who returned the hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too, little Swallow. How’s the Path working out for you?”

“It has its ups and downs.” She frowned. “Currently down.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And who’s this?”

“That’s Mistle. Mistle, this is Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Mistle,” said Yennefer, ponderously. “Little Waxwing. Two birds in my bushes.”

“Is Geralt awake?”

“He’s not here, actually. Hunting down some Archespore infestation in one of the other vineyards. He said he’d be back by morning.”

Ciri smiled. “He can’t even retire properly.”

“There’s hope for him yet. I suspect he wants to purchase me something nice and is earning the money the only way he knows how.”

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

“Indeed. Well, let’s not stay out here. I was serious about the guest room. I’ll wake the majordomo and have him prepare it for you.”

“Won’t be necessary.”

 “Oh, it will,” Yennefer insisted. “Someone has to remove the unicorn.”

* * *

Contrary to what she’d just declared, Geralt of Rivia had retired spectacularly well. The vineyard was expecting its first new wine in the next few months, and the house itself was impressive without being ostentatious, no ordinary feat considering Yennefer now called it home as well.

Armor and swords decorated the main area, with several paintings lining the wall as well. One showed Geralt fighting a giant centipede as seen through a wild, fiery orange filter, while another portrayed a bizarrely scantily clad version of the Witcher standing proudly over a defeated griffin with his sword planted in the ground like a flag. “Artistic license” was an understatement. No doubt he only displayed it because it was dreadfully costly, or because Yennefer found it amusing.

Barnabas-Basil Foulty, majordomo of the Corvo Bianco vineyard, was carrying a stuffed unicorn down the stairs leading up to the guest room. While he wouldn’t dream of complaining, Ciri noticed the sweat and the veins bulging in his forehead as he struggled to maneuver the unwieldy object down the stairs. Yennefer, as usual, displayed no sign of concern.

“Do you need some help with that?”

“I will… manage,” the majordomo insisted, even as he struggled to maintain his grip. She shook her head and moved over to assist. Yennefer and Mistle stayed where they were.

“We could just wake more of the servants.”

“Yennefer!” she admonished. “It’s past midnight. It’s bad enough you woke B.B. here.”

“You know, its frankly eerie how you and Geralt develop the same nicknames for people and things independently of each other.”

She laughed, bracing her shoulder against the unicorn’s haunches and gradually guiding it down the stairs while Barnabas-Basil held the other end.

“Bonded by destiny, remember?”

“That can be remedied.”

They succeeded in getting the stuffed unicorn downstairs, and Ciri helped move it into the main bedroom. “You’re sure Geralt won’t mind?”

“He will. But he will also have to deal with it.”

“Just please don’t use it while we’re right above you.”

“I can make no promises. Fortunately for you he won’t be back until morning.”

Mistle wrinkled her brow. “Am I missing some context here?”

“Believe me,” said Ciri, clapping her hand on her shoulder. “You’re better off not knowing.”

* * *

The guest bed had only been designed for one, but Ciri and Mistle were able to make it work. The blonde fell asleep in her arms, but Ciri remained conscious a while longer. She spent most of that time staring at a painting hanging on the wall of the guest room, which depicted a red-haired man standing over a raven-haired woman, who was looking up at him and resting an arm against his chest. They looked very happy.

Ciri wasn’t certain what drew her eyes to the painting. She knew, of course, that the happiness portrayed within was artificially preserved and couldn’t last. Nothing in life was ever as perfect as moments immortalized in paintings. But there was an honest love depicted there that Ciri had always desired for herself. And since being reunited with Mistle, she’d begun to think that such a thing was possible for her again.

Experience had, of course, taught Ciri to be wary of anything remotely resembling a happy and stable life, which always ended up being cruelly ripped away from her at the worst possible moment. Her first lesson came with the death of her mother. Then the fall of Cintra. Then the Mages’ Rebellion on Thanedd. Then Bonhart. Then the Wild Hunt.

Even with all the threats against her ended at last, Ciri still had no idea how to settle down. Even Geralt, a man who’d been on the Path for decades, who never stopped moving, had reached the end of his journey. But Ciri still wandered. Even with all her power, she still wasn’t able to dictate her own course in life. She wasn’t able to take control. Maybe now was a good time to start.

Something else drew her to the painting, but Ciri struggled to identify it. Whoever made it was clearly skilled at captivating the imagination.

There had to be a way to get Mistle out of this. Geralt could help her figure something out. There could still be a happy ending.

‘ _Yeah,_ ’ she thought, still staring at the painting. ‘ _Maybe in a fairy tale._ ’

* * *

Geralt’s hair was still wet when he arrived at the Corvo Bianco vineyard the next morning, having stopped to wash the Archespore juices off his armor before daring to stand in front of Yennefer. The elixirs he had drunk before the battle were finally starting to wear off, and the coin purse strapped to his side was satisfyingly heavy. He stretched out his arms as he strolled leisurely up the cobblestones to the main house.

Barnabas-Basil Foulty greeted him halfway up the path.

“Good morning, Master,” the majordomo said. “It is my duty to inform you of events that occurred while you were away on your contract.”

“Such as?”

“You have two guests, sir, that are waiting for you inside. They arrived at a most peculiar hour, but I nevertheless fulfilled my duty in preparing the guest room.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, Master. I had to move it to your chambers. One of the guests was most helpful in assisting me.”

Geralt sighed deeply. “Okay, who are the guests you’re talking about?”

“Owing to the hour, I’m ashamed to say I did not inquire their names. But Lady Yennefer received them and seemed to know at least one of them, the one with the ashen hair.”

He stopped walking, then cracked a wide smile. “Thanks for the heads up, B.B. You can get back to your work now. I’m sure you have better things to do than keep me company.”

“I shall return to my duties at once, sire.” Barnabas-Basil bowed and walked away, towards the servant’s quarters.

Geralt looked over to the stables and saw two extra horses, one of which was black as midnight. That confirmed it. He’d been hoping that she would stop by for some time now. The smile stayed on his face all the way to the house.

“Oh good, you’re home.”

Yennefer was seated in an alcove just off to the right of the main chamber, from which she had constructed her own little den with a chaise-lounge resting against a wall that was not visible from here. She currently occupied one of the two chairs that she’d added for the purpose of entertaining guests, though why she had chosen that seat for herself was a mystery. She was barely visible around the corner, and was facing the door. He moved further inside, setting his swords in the bedroom and confirming that yes, damn it, the unicorn had been relocated there for the time being.

He doffed his armor, emerging from the room with a simple shirt and trousers, and made his way over to the alcove.

Rounding the corner, it became clear why Yennefer had given up her favorite seat. Ciri occupied the chaise-lounge next to another woman, whose blonde hair was shaved on the sides with a ponytail in back. He’d seen her face somewhere before, though he couldn’t place it at the moment.

“Geralt!” Ciri leaped to her feet and embraced him. He eagerly returned the hug.

“We’ve been waiting for you to visit.”

“I know, and I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“What do you mean?” He released her, and as they separated, the bangs covering her left temple shifted slightly, just enough for him to notice the marks burned into her flesh. His eyes went wide, and even though witchers supposedly weren’t capable of strong displays of emotion, something flared deep within him.

“Where did you get that?”

“She was just explaining,” said Yennefer. “You should sit down.”

He looked hard at Ciri, refusing to believe it even though he knew what those marks meant, having borne them himself. She stayed quiet and didn’t meet his gaze. Eventually he followed Yennefer’s instructions and sat down. Ciri did the same a moment later.

“I suppose I should introduce you,” she said, her voice low and quiet, containing no small amount of shame. “Geralt, this is Mistle. Mistle, this is Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt and the young woman called Mistle made eye contact, but did not greet each other further.

“Do you remember after we left Stygga Castle, when we traveled to a village called Jealousy? I was looking to pay my last respects to six of my companions, who had been slaughtered in front of me by Leo Bonhart.”

Yennefer leaned forward in her chair and rested her arms against her knee. “Of course we remember.”

“Mistle was one of them.”

The sorceress drew her head back slowly, puzzling through something in her head. “How is it possible that she’s here, then?”

 “I can guess,” Geralt said, his eyes moving to the arcane marks on Ciri’s left temple. “What were you thinking, making a deal with him?”

Yennefer shot up an eyebrow. “A deal with whom?”

“It’s not what you think,” said Ciri. “That’s not the deal I made.”

“She didn’t ask him to bring me back,” confirmed Mistle. “I made that deal with him on my own. But I asked him to bring me her. For two years he failed to deliver on that, then he sends her as his proxy right when he’s due to collect.”

Ciri looked at him pleadingly. “I was robbed by two members of her new gang and stabbed in the belly while I slept,” she explained. “I was bleeding out and I collapsed on the floor of a tavern where he was staying. He saved me, then asked for my service as repayment. Now I’m beginning to wonder if he didn’t arrange the whole thing.”

Geralt sighed, remembering what the subject of their conversation was capable of. “Knowing him, he probably did.”

“I am not accustomed to being ignored,” Yennefer said with barely contained fury. “So I will repeat my question. With whom did the two of you make a deal?”

It was Ciri who answered. “Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Who?”

“Someone I thought I’d never have to deal with again,” answered Geralt, rubbing his forehead with both hands.

“Is he a necromancer?”

“No,” he replied. “He told me himself he doesn’t bother with spells. He’s extremely powerful, though. Even more powerful than Ciri.”

Ciri’s eyes widened. “How powerful?”

“One time I was set to meet him in a tavern. A drunk was blocking my way, so he clapped his hands and time literally froze. On his way out he shoved a wooden spoon through the man’s eye, then everything shifted back to normal.”

“Is he a demon?”

“I’m not sure. But he’s old. Very old. There are records of him dating back over two thousand years, under different names. Master Mirror. The Man of Glass. Same story every time, too. Someone isn’t careful what they wish for and they regret ever making a pact with him, then he takes their soul as payment.”

Ciri was quiet for several moments, looking down at the table. Finally she turned to face him again. “Is there a way to beat him?”

“You can’t fight him directly,” he answered. “He’s the embodiment of Evil.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. That’s literally what he is, or the closest I can get to describing him. But he’s bound by his own rules. He likes to play games with mortals. Ruin their lives. If you challenge him he’ll have to give you a fair shot at winning.”

“And what are the stakes?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm takes payment in human souls,” said Geralt. “I’m guessing that’s what your friend Mistle promised him. He likes to make things challenging for himself, though. If he has you serving as his proxy, that means you have to fulfill three wishes, right?”

She nodded.

“In order to challenge him, you have to prove you’re a worthy opponent,” he continued, then turned to Mistle. “You’ll be tempted to make the wishes easy. Don’t.”

“Why would I make them easy?” she asked. “It’s not like I want him to take my soul.”

“If Ciri fails, he’ll take her soul instead. It’s different with you two than when I was serving as his proxy. The man who owed him wanted me to die trying to fulfill his wishes, which he deliberately made impossible by any conventional standards. But I’m guessing you don’t.”

Mistle said nothing.

“You have to make them just hard enough that he’ll be tempted to help. That’s his real game. He likes to prove how clever he is.” He turned to Ciri. “If you fulfill the three wishes and challenge him, you have a chance of getting her out of this.”

“I’m guessing it won’t be easy.”

“It won’t. But I have faith in you.”

She smiled.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. “I have something I need to show you.”

* * *

He led her up the stairs to the guest room, leaving Yennefer and Mistle at the table. They stopped in front of the painting.

“I was admiring this last night,” she said. “Who are they?”

“Olgierd and Iris von Everec,” Geralt answered, sitting down on one of the chaise lounges below the painting while she took the other.

The painting hung on a wall directly bordering the staircase, and two pieces of furniture met in the corner. The bed from which she had stared at the painting the night before lay in the opposite corner, with a large chest at its end. An armoire occupied the wall further down. Overall, the guest room was exceedingly cozy and well decorated.

“Who was the artist?”

“Iris,” he answered, indicating the raven-haired woman with wide, inviting eyes. Eyes as yet untouched by sadness, frozen in time. “It’s a painting from when they were first married.”

“Where did you get it?”

He frowned and looked at the painting for a few moments. “From her ghost.”

“From her _what_?”

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” he said, returning his attention to her. “Before we can talk about Iris, we need to talk about Olgierd. He was a Redanian nobleman who was serving as an Ataman in the Redanian Free Corps when I met him, also known as the Wild Ones.”

“He looks happy here.”

“That surprised me too. He was set to marry Iris when they were both young, and he still had his money, land and status. But then he lost it all. Her parents forbade the union and tried to marry her off to a Prince from Ofier instead.”

Geralt turned away from the painting and looked her in the eyes. “That’s when Olgierd met Gaunter O’Dimm.”

Ciri leaned forward and listened intently.

“Olgierd cursed the prince that Iris was supposed to marry without even meaning to, just by uttering a drunken wish in O’Dimm’s presence. Then he made a deal that would see his fortune and marriage to Iris restored, at the cost of his soul, and the life of his brother. He thought he was safe by making it so that O’Dimm would need to fulfill three wishes by proxy and collect his payment while standing on the moon. But he didn’t realize what he’d gotten himself into.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her. “Olgierd ceased to be human. His heart turned to stone, and his love for Iris withered and died inside him, until eventually she told him to leave her. She died, alone, with only the otherworldly servants Olgierd had summoned to keep her company. She became a wraith with the ability to enter paintings at will, passing into a world of her own creation. I had to chase her through those paintings to find the rose Olgierd had left her, to fulfill his final wish.”

“A world of paintings?” she asked animatedly, momentarily distracted from the gravity of the story. “Avallac’h once told me such worlds can exist, though I’ve never seen one before.” She looked at the painting again. “I could probably get there through this one. That must be what’s drawing me to it. The energy seems… familiar.”

Geralt shook his head. “No Ciri, you couldn’t. When I got the rose from Iris, her world ceased to exist and she passed on into the afterlife. It’s not there anymore.”

“A world doesn’t stop existing just because the mind that created it passes on,” she explained to him like she would a first year student. “That would violate the cosmic laws governing conservation of mass and energy. There’s still a fair amount of magical energy coming from that painting, similar to a portal. It probably wouldn’t look the same, but whatever pocket sphere you visited is still there.”

“Then why did it all start disappearing? I barely got out of there in time.”

“Most likely it’s because her mind filled the space like water in a jug. She was like a cork, the one keeping everything contained within that sphere and holding it all together. When she passed on, the energy had to go somewhere, and chose the path of least resistance. But the space itself was present well before she came along.” She clutched the sides of her head. “Avallac’h is better at explaining these things.”

“You mean if I wanted to I could create my own little world out of every dream and nightmare I have?”

Ciri shook her head. “What I’m saying is that such a world already exists. There’s a world for every idea, every story, every dark thought anyone has ever had. But even with my power, actually getting to one of those worlds is damn near impossible. The painting is a medium for doing so, but I can’t help feeling it was Gaunter O’Dimm that made it all work. Did Iris possess any magical talent that you know of?”

“No. Olgierd only got power after he’d already made the pact. But I’ll admit that I never faced a wraith with that sort of power before.”

“It must have something to do with how their relationship fell apart due to O’Dimm’s influence. Combined with her strong emotions at death and her penchant for a visual medium like painting, it starts to make more sense that she’d be able to enter that world. The only other explanation would be if she somehow had Elder Blood.”

“Anyway,” he said, in no mood for this argument. “The point I’m trying to make is that O’Dimm ultimately doesn’t care if he gets either of your souls. The only reason he meddles with humans is to cause suffering. He likes to give you what you wanted only to poison it, to trick you and then tell you that you got exactly what you wished for. He’ll try to destroy your relationship with this girl, regardless of what happens to either of you in the end. That’s his goal.”

“I appreciate the advice,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “But I’ll be fine. I won’t be fooled by his lies.”

“That just it,” said Geralt. “He doesn’t lie. He shows you the ugly truth.” He looked at the painting one more time. “And after that, you can never see things the same way again.”

* * *

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” Mistle asked once they had stepped outside. The Corvo Bianco vineyard was a sight to behold, as was the surrounding countryside. But neither of them were in the mood to admire the view.

Yennefer regarded her with a cold sideways glance, making her way over to the chaise lounge that she had set up outside. “What gave it away?”

“I know you care too much about Ciri’s feelings to say it in front of her,” she said. “But I can see it all over your face. I’ve been getting looks like that my whole life.”

“From what Ciri’s told us, it’s not like you’ve given people much reason to do otherwise.” She sat down. Mistle stubbornly remained standing for about a minute before sliding into the chair across from her.

“Whatever. I’m used to it.”

“Are you? Then why raise such a fuss about it?”

Mistle reclined back and put her hands behind her head. “I’m not. Just making an observation.”

“You really are a stuck up little tart, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Yennefer smirked wickedly. “I’m so glad we understand each other.”

“You’ll not keep me from her.”

“Is that so?  You know, all things considered, Bonhart gave you a quick death. If I wanted to I could make sure your life ended in far more agony after you’d begged me to a thousand times.” She clenched her fist in front of her and glared right into the young woman’s eyes. “But you’re right. I value Ciri’s happiness too much to stand in the way of her decisions, at least to that degree.”

“Glad we understand each other.”

“Ciri is very dear to me,” said Yennefer, her voice never losing that undercurrent of ice cold fury. “I think of her as a daughter. I’m glad you were there for her during a time when I couldn’t be. But you’re a bad influence, and you’ve gotten her into something that’s well over her head. As soon as your business with this Gaunter O’Dimm is concluded, if he hasn’t taken your soul by then, you are to leave her alone. For good.”

“And how do you plan to make me?”

Among various beasts, wolves for example, a smile was meant as a display of aggression, a reminder that the bared teeth on display could and would rip out your yielding throat. Yennefer’s smile in that moment communicated that message very clearly.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Vilgefortz of Roggeveen?”

Mistle, trying unsuccessfully to mask the fear brought on by Yennefer’s sudden shift in demeanor, shook her head.

“He is, by and large, the main reason Ciri ended up in your orbit. But that’s neither here nor there.” Her features grew even more frigid and threatening. “He had this incredibly annoying phrase he liked to say whenever he was gloating. ‘You mistook the stars reflected on the water’s surface at night for the heavens.’ Arrogant prick. In the end, he was the one who fell victim to an illusion that proved his undoing.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” she replied, “that ever since he captured and tortured me, I’ve gotten a lot better at turning my eyes skyward. So don’t even think you’re a match for me.”

Mistle laughed. “I wonder what Ciri would say if she heard you now.”

“You won’t have to wonder. You’re operating under the assumption that I’m afraid to bring this up in front of her, but the truth is I wanted to give you a fair warning first. At the end of all this, you and Ciri will go your separate ways. Or I shall make it so.”

“Best of luck with that.”

She stood up and walked back inside. Yennefer lingered for a moment, glaring after her.

“Luck,” she said, mostly to herself, “has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

* * *

“I’ve decided on my first wish,” Mistle announced once all of them were back inside.

Ciri walked closer to her. “What is it?”

“That’s a fancy palace on top of Beauclair,” she said. “I want to spend the night in its tallest tower. After a lavish ball where Ciri and I are the guests of honor.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Geralt was the first to answer. “That’s actually not impossible. I know the Duchess personally. Given a few days, she could throw something together. And Ciri _is_ royalty.”

“Precisely why we shouldn’t be throwing a party in her honor in the middle of one of Nilfgaard’s vassal states,” Yennefer pointed out. “You told Emhyr she was dead.”

“Nobody violates Toussaint’s borders,” he said. “Not even Emhyr.”

“That hardly matters. Do you know how many Nilfgaardian dignitaries are in Anna Henrietta’s court? Any one of them could report back to him that Ciri is alive. Forget about leaving them off the guest list, there’s simply too many of them. You’d be left with less than half the people that normally attend these things.”

“How many of those dignitaries thought the decoy sent to the Royal Court was actually Ciri? None of them know what she looks like.”

“That won’t matter if we’re throwing the ball in her name!”

“So we don’t,” said Ciri.

They turned to look at her. Geralt was the first to speak.

“What do you mean?”

“Only the Duchess and her most trusted circle need to know who I really am,” she said. “The rest of them will be introduced to me as Falka of Ebbing, a minor noble that they’ll all pretend to have heard of so they won’t lose face.”

“And I might not look like it, but I’m technically nobility too,” said Mistle. “They can introduce me as Mistle of Thurn, a medium-sized village in Maecht. Or it was before the bandits took it.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“It’s only fair,” said Ciri. “My father didn’t use his real name at the banquet my grandmother brought you to. Neither did you, for that matter.”

“At her request.”

“Touché.”

Mistle quirked an eyebrow. “I’m missing something again, aren’t I?”

“My father was the victim of a curse,” she explained. “He learned that he could be cured of it by a Child Surprise, which he accomplished by asking for my mother as a reward for rescuing my grandfather on the side of the road. He showed up at a banquet thrown in honor of her fifteenth birthday to claim her. My grandmother, Queen Calanthe, tried to stop it by inviting Geralt to the banquet under the alias Ravix of Fourhorn. He introduced himself first as the Urcheon of Erlenwald, then as Duny.”

“But that wasn’t his real name?”

Ciri shook her head.

“What was it, then?”

“Emhyr var Emreis.”

Mistle practically  jumped out of her skin. “The Emperor of Nilfgaard? And he wanted to marry you? That’s disgusting!”

“Apparently my children are supposed to rule the world.”

“He did give up on the scheme,” said Yennefer. “Eventually. To think we might have been spared three entire wars and countless deaths if he’d just given his real name from the beginning.”

“Hence, why this is poetic justice,” Ciri explained, then smiled at Mistle. “At the banquet my father also claimed he was from Maecht.”

A heavy sigh emerged from Geralt. “Are you really sure this will work?”

Yennefer chuckled. “You tell me, Ravix of Fourhorn.”

He grumbled.

“Well then,” said Ciri. “What are we waiting for? Let’s plan a ball.”


	3. The Belles of the Ball

Beauclair Palace was built by the Aen Seidhe elves thousands of years before humans ever arrived on the scene, and still dazzled those who beheld it with its impossibly advanced architecture, the construction of which most believed was aided by magic. Gleaming white towers capped with red, pointed rooftops made up the majority of the structure, with a massive, intricate metalwork design spanning an enormous archway that split the structure down the middle. Its delightful asymmetry and enchanting presence outshone the decidedly more human constructs that could be seen in the form of various keeps and manors dotting the hillsides.

Ciri regarded it the same way she regarded all remnants of Aen Seidhe architecture: with caution. Tor Lara on Thanedd had taught her to be wary of what happened when humans decided to claim elven strongholds as their own without fully comprehending their nature, like a hermit crab using a golden chalice for its shell. They could occupy it, but it was hardly a natural fit, and they would never truly understand it.

She did not share these thoughts as Geralt led her, Mistle, and Yennefer up the spiraling path that began at the bridge that connected the palace grounds to the rest of Beauclair, all the way to the main courtyard at the peak of the palace, where Duchess Anna Henrietta held court. They passed through an archway to see two staircases on either side of a statue, and traveled up one of them to a balcony overlooking the Gorgon Foothills. Ancient elven statues decorated the railing, watching over the courtyard in silent, eternal vigil. From here all manner of business was done in the open air, rather than behind closed doors like so many other leaders preferred. From what Geralt had told them, though, the Duchess was more than capable of being clandestine when the situation called for it.

It was exceedingly amusing to her that Geralt, the least cultured among them, was the only one in their company who had made the acquaintance of a woman who had fashioned her entire Duchy on upholding the aesthetics of old fairy tales, from the rigorous property management laws to the very way her knights spoke. Geralt was in many ways the antithesis to that mold, but he had a certain nobility that he hid beneath his churlish exterior.

Duchess Anna Henrietta, known sometimes as Anarietta to those more familiar with her, though never at court, was clad in a splendid green dress, with white triangles arranged in an alternating pattern that led from her neckline to her skirt.  Her tiara sparkled atop her exquisitely done hair, which was held up by masterfully placed pins. At one time she had been affectionately known as “Little Weasel” by a certain poet, and now that Ciri finally saw her face, she understood where Dandelion had come up with that nickname. The last time she was in Toussaint, she had arrived just in time to witness his execution, which he’d managed to stall long enough for the Duchess to change her mind and exile him instead.

That incident had prematurely soured her opinion of the Duchess, but Geralt had told her that she really was a lovely person. She just had a lot of fairy tale ideals mixed with actual political power, which meant it was risky to fall out of her favor. At least with other rulers one could reasonably expect the standard punishments for crossing them. Anna Henrietta was a little harder to predict.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia!” the herald shouted as they passed, then squinted over the rest of them. “And entourage!”

Yennefer’s violet eyes lit up with fire. “ _Entourage_?”

“Leave it, Yen,” said Geralt. “Not everybody in the world has heard of you.”

“The nerve! I shall—”

“Sir Geralt!” the Duchess greeted as they moved closer. “How wonderful to see you today!”

He bowed, extending his left leg forward and holding his right arm over his chest as he spread out his left. He was actually getting rather decent at it. Ciri curtsied, somewhat awkwardly given that she was wearing trousers instead of a dress, and Mistle tried her best to imitate her. Yennefer halted her rant, sighed begrudgingly, and followed suit.

“Greetings, Your Illustrious Highness,” Geralt said formally. “Forgive me for not introducing my companions just yet, but I’d hoped to do so under more… private circumstances.”

Ciri crossed her arms and stared at him, impressed. He’d actually started to pick up manners. Or Yennefer had finally managed to drill them into him. Contrary to what most people thought when first meeting him, Geralt was devilishly intelligent and capable of assuming all sorts of roles in the name of performing his work, since witchers mingled with all levels of society. He just hated being fancy.

For her part, Anna Henrietta looked intrigued. “Hm. It was wise of you to come after we have finished holding court for the day. Although we could still make you wait.”

“If Your Grace wishes,” he said, a grimace betraying his discomfort. “However this matter is of great importance.”

The Duchess laughed, with a practiced, formal charm. But that did not mean it was fake. “Very well. Let us retire inside.”

They were led through opulent glass doors into the palace itself, down hallways bursting with heraldic decorations and extravagant pieces of art that could be described many ways, but never as tasteless. Once they were past the parts that were immediately visible from the courtyard, the opulence gave way to a more utilitarian feel, while still being just ostentatious enough to impress.

At last they reached a large entertainment room, with musical instruments, conversation pieces, furniture, and several items of food that were either on call for occasions like this or evidence that Anna Henrietta could tell the future.

“Well then,” she said as the servants closed the doors and left. “We are well away from prying ears. Damien will of course stay, as his loyalty is beyond reproach.”

Ciri turned momentarily to examine the large man in plate armor standing beside the Duchess. He was bald and had a nasty scar covering the right side of his face. But his eyes betrayed that he was not nearly as brutish as his appearance would otherwise suggest.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Geralt, looking happy to drop the formalities. “Allow me to introduce—“

“These two need no introduction,” Anna Henrietta interrupted. “We are well aware of Yennefer of Vengerberg, upon whose love you placed your vow in the tournament. As well as Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Heiress to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Suzeraine of Attre and Abb Yarra, and Child of the Elder Blood.”

Ciri failed to hide her surprise. “How did you…?”

“I’d like to think I would recognize my second cousin.”

“Right.” Geralt sighed and placed a palm over his forehead, resting it there. “I forgot that—“

“That His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, Conqueror of the Northern Realms, _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ , The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes, is my first cousin,” she finished. “I can hardly remember it myself.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

Anarietta smirked playfully. “Aside from which, this is not the first time we have made your acquaintance. You were too young to remember, but we stayed in Cintra for a time when you were very little. We knew and were fond of your mother, Pavetta. Geralt told us all about you and his mission to rescue you the last time he came through Toussaint.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Indeed.”

“Did you know who my father really was?”

“Not at the time. He did not reclaim his name and title until after returning home to Nilfgaard, after which we mostly heard from him through letters.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you again, Your Grace.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Anarietta replied, then turned to Mistle. “You we admit we do not know.”

“Mistle of Thurn,” she introduced herself, attempting an awkward curtsy and mostly pulling it off without falling. “Your Ladyship.”

“Her _Enlightened_ Ladyship.”

“Calm down, Damien. It’s clear she hasn’t been schooled in proper etiquette.” What amazed Ciri was that the Duchess said that without a hint of condescension. “You get points for trying, though.”

“Thank you, Your… Enlightened Ladyship.”

“See? She can learn. You may also address me as Your Grace, Duchess, or in less formal settings such as this one, Anna Henrietta.”

Mistle nodded, clearly out of sorts. Ciri herself was surprised to see a woman who once held so much contempt for everything humble herself like this, but Mistle clearly understood that in order to pull off this wish of hers, she had to act a certain way. Still, it had to be killing her.

“I suppose we should tell you what this is all about,” said Yennefer.

“Indeed. That would be most agreeable.”

Ciri stood a little straighter. “I know this might sound strange, but we need to throw a ball. A lavish one. The two of us,” she said, indicating Mistle, “will be the guests of honor. I will be attending under an assumed name.”

Anarietta narrowed her eyes slightly, glancing between all of them, and appearing to give the matter some thought. Finally, she spoke. “That is indeed a strange request. May we ask why?”

Any elaborate deceptions or carefully worded falsehoods she had dreamed up on the way here withered under the Duchess’ shrewd gaze. Ciri had never excelled at lying anyway, and she hated it when people kept the truth from her out of some misguided desire to “protect” her. She wasn’t about to be a hypocrite.

“What I tell you is said in confidence, and I swear it is the honest truth. Please try to keep an open mind.”

“We shall endeavor to do so.”

“Mistle has made a pact with a powerful demon. I need to fulfill three wishes for her in order to challenge this demon for her soul. This is the first wish.”

“Ah, a witcher’s contract? You might have just said so.”

Ciri shook her head. “That’s not why. It’s personal. This same demon saved my life and pressed me into his service. If I fail in my task or refuse to perform it he’ll take my soul instead.”

“I see.” She placed a hand to her chin and glanced at the floor, dropping the royal “we” as introspection overtook her. “This is a very strange tale you tell, but I believe you. I’ve had to open my mind to a lot of things recently.” She met her gaze, and adopted a more formal posture. “At any rate, seeing as you are the Emperor’s daughter, we can’t rightly refuse such a request. We would ask why you don’t wish to attend under your own name.”

“The Emperor has been informed that I’m dead.”

“Ah.” She nodded, beginning to pace. “That does pose a problem. We had indeed heard the news. But why come to us? Surely you couldn’t trust that we wouldn’t simply tell him you’re alive.”

“I could, actually,” she replied. “While Toussaint is technically a vassal of Nilfgaard, you wouldn’t know it walking down the streets of Beauclair. It’s clear you’ve built your own way of life here. Someone who puts that much effort into distinguishing themselves from the rest of the Empire isn’t going to go running to Emhyr with every scrap of information.”

Anna Henrietta pondered that for several moments. Then she began to clap.

“Bravo. We see you’ve grown into a cunning young woman. Very well, you shall go by another name for the night. But what will the name be?”

“Falka,” she answered. “Of Ebbing.”

Her smile dropped.

“There is a lot of history attached to that name,” said Anna Henrietta. “As we are sure you know. Do you really wish to use it?”

She nodded.

“So be it. Now we must find a reason to hold the ball that will satisfy the curiosity of the guests.”

Mistle had moved over to the hors d’oeuvres table and begun snacking. Geralt joined her. Yennefer remained where she was, but did not take her eyes off the young blonde.

“What do you suggest?” asked the sorceress.

“A dual debutante ball,” she answered. “Two young nobles making their entrance into the high society of Toussaint. Normally this happens when the daughter of a noble family comes of age, but since we aren’t able to call upon Cirilla’s true heritage, we must invent a different reason. Two young nobles who recently came into possession of land within Toussaint would certainly merit such an occasion. The land would have to be fairly important, however.”

“How important?”

“Extremely. Giving them shares in Geralt’s vineyard, for example, would not suffice.”

“There goes my idea,” said Geralt, currently devouring shrimp across the room.

“I’ve got it!” the Duchess said suddenly, raising an arm with her index finger extended. “Tesham Mutna.”

The Witcher stopped halfway from grabbing another handful of shrimp. “I beg your pardon?”

“Recently, we ordered a census on all properties owned by parties other than the Ducal Chancellery within Toussaint,” she explained. “We discovered that, officially, the land surrounding the ruins known as Tesham Mutna is owned by one Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. And has been for centuries.”

“Regis, a landed gentleman?” Geralt laughed. “That’s a good one.”

“Indeed. But it’s true. And ever since he mysteriously disappeared several weeks ago, the land was returned to the Duchy, as a historical site. It will, for the night of the ball at least, be placed under the care of these two upstart noblewomen.”

“Alright, that sounds plausible.”

“I trust your servants can take care of planning the occasion?” asked Yennefer. “I’d offer to help but I don’t think our tastes would agree.”

“Black was never my color,” Anna Henrietta replied. “But of course, we will see to everything.”

“I thank you,” said Ciri. “Especially for believing me.”

“Your gratitude is appreciated. And it will be, we should hope, returned one day.”

She smiled. “You can count on it. There is one other thing.”

“What is it?”

“The two of us would like to spend the night here, after the ball. In the highest tower.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Anna Henrietta frowned. “Impossible.”

“Why?”

“It is currently occupied.”

“Oh come on,” said Geralt, moving closer. “You can’t let Syanna out of her cage for one night?”

“I have personally forgiven my sister,” said the Duchess. “But she must still answer for her crimes. Four men were murdered, on her orders. She must serve out her punishment.”

“Can’t think of anything she’d consider more punishing than forcing her to sit through one of your parties.”

She smirked. “Touché, Witcher. Fine. We will allow Syanna to attend the ball, and we will find alternate quarters for her for the night. But if she causes any trouble at all, you will answer for it. Personally.”

Geralt inclined his head towards her. “You have my word.”

“Very well, then. Now, what theme shall we choose? Oh! And we must make sure to invite only those Nilfgaardians who won’t recognize Ciri. And we must choose something to wear…” She looked up, as if she had just remembered the rest of them were still there. “Forgive us, we must plan in private. Damien will show you out.”

Damien moved forward to escort them, and they followed.

“Is it just me,” Mistle whispered to her on their way out, “or is she more excited about this than we are?”

Ciri smiled. “Well, she does love fairy tales.”

* * *

“So,” said Yennefer, playfully leaning in to Geralt as they walked a few paces ahead of Mistle and Ciri. “You professed your love for me as your knightly vow?”

“It was for a tournament,” he said. “Seemed appropriate.”

“Indeed. Far more effective than climbing on top of Mount Gorgon and shouting loudly.” She held out her arm, and Geralt took it in his. The four of them wandered through the streets of Beauclair, taking in the lively atmosphere of the city.

There was a lovely and free spirited nature to Beauclair that stood in stark contrast to the tense, theocratic oppression of Novigrad or the stuffy, academic air of Oxenfurt. The people here were happy and not shy about it, rejoicing as if every day was a festival.

Yennefer doubted their sanity.

“Awful lot of damage to the buildings,” she observed, looking around at various scorch marks and crumbled walls that poked holes in the fairy tale façade. “They really did a number on the city.”

“Who did?” asked Ciri, having caught up with them. Mistle remained quiet, simply absorbing the energy of the city around her. It was clear she had never seen so much joy on display in all her life.

“An army of vampires,” Geralt answered. “Led by a higher vampire known as Dettlaff van der Eretein.”

“The locals have dubbed it the Night of Long Fangs,” said Yennefer.

“Speaking of vampires, why did the Duchess say Regis disappeared a few weeks ago? I thought Vilgefortz killed him back at Stygga Castle.”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “Let’s just say higher vampires never truly die unless they’re killed by another of their kind.”

“I’m glad he’s alive in any case. I only met him briefly, but he made quite an impression.”

“He does that.”

They walked through the Hauteville district, stopping by at the Cianfanelli bank, where Yennefer stopped to make a withdrawal. Geralt stayed outside. When that was complete they continued walking along the street into Lolivier Square, taking note of the shops along the way.

“Come touch Reginald D’Aubry!” shouted a man with a bizarrely shrill voice. “For today only, half price for women and senior citizens!”

Yennefer wondered if she could get both discounts if she said she was really almost one hundred years old, but decided against it. She was about to continue walking when Geralt sighed deeply and put his head in his palm. She stopped and turned to the man who was displaying truly impressive amounts of enthusiasm even by the standards of this city.

“Who is Reginald D’Aubry and why are you charging people to touch him?”

“Reginald D’Aubry was a man gifted in one very special way,” the man answered. “Sadly he passed several years ago, but his statue stands in the garden behind this wall. One touch grants enormous benefits to stamina and vigor. It is thanks to your companion, Geralt of Rivia, that we can continue charging people for the pleasure to this day.”

Ciri came up next to them and crossed her arms, looking vaguely worried. “What’s he talking about?”

“Yes, Geralt, what is he talking about?”

The Witcher grumbled and glared at the man, who remained completely oblivious.

“When I arrived in Toussaint, someone had stolen the statue’s… crown jewels. Rolande here hired me to find them. I tracked them down to a man who was using them to give himself a boost while he was sleeping with another man’s wife. In the end I got the stones back.”

The grin that spread over Yennefer’s features could only be described as devilish. “Well then. I suppose I must see this statue with my own eyes. You mentioned a discount?”

“For friends of the man who saved my business, you may rub Reginald with no charge!”

Mistle tilted her head to the side. “Rub?”

“Ah, let me show you.” He led them through a wooden gate and up a set of stairs, where they were treated to a view of the statue of Reginald D’Aubry in all its glory. He was, as the man had promised, very gifted.

Yennefer stared hard at the statue, admiring its detail. “Is that actual size?”

“A cast was taken from the body before the funeral,” he explained. “And it has been verified by many of his former lovers. All you need do is rub the area in order to receive Reginald’s blessing.”

Mistle crossed her arms, unimpressed. “It’s big alright, I’ll give you that, but what if it’s not a man’s bits I’m out to touch?”

“Reginald does not discriminate! Men, women, young and old! Whomever you love, whomever you share your bed with, the blessing is applied to all who touch the statue.”

Now that Yennefer was close enough to examine it, she observed a faint magical aura emanating from that part of the statue, one usually associated with spells designed to function as a magical aphrodisiac, as well as those intended to boost stamina. She noticed both Geralt and Ciri’s medallions were vibrating. She could get more from an identifying spell, but the man was more or less correct about the effects of touching the statue, even if he likely had no idea why.

“Alright then,” she said, stepping up and rubbing the statue’s gonads. She felt a rush of energy surge through her, which confirmed her hypothesis about which spell was used to create the effect. “Fascinating. I wonder what would happen if we combined it with…”

Geralt’s eyes widened in horror. “No, Yen. No way.”

She smiled impishly. “We’ll have to come by and touch it later, when we’re not in mixed company.”

“Yes, please do that later,” said Ciri, her eyes displaying the same look of embarrassment tinged with mild terror. “Can we leave now?”

“Say no more.” She turned to Rolande. “Thank you for this wonderful diversion, but we must be on our way. May we return later?”

“But of course! Reginald D’Aubry is always at your disposal.”

“Splendid.” She turned to the rest of them. “Well, shall we go shopping? We must pick out something dazzling for the ball.”

* * *

Shopping took the better part of the day. Geralt was sent on other errands at Yennefer’s behest, since she already had his outfit picked out. It wasn’t like her. One of the sorceress’ favorite pastimes was tormenting her beloved witcher by making him endure such indignities as waiting while she tried on any number of fancy dresses, often never buying any of them. Instead she gave him the rest of the day to do as he pleased.

If she had a reason for doing it, Ciri considered, she wasn’t in any hurry to share what it was. Perhaps she merely enjoyed being unpredictable.

Mistle stood on a pedestal in front of a tri-folding screen, stretching out her arms while a couturier named Agda took her measurements. The woman was middle-aged, with skin weathered by the region’s plentiful sunlight. She had a stern, calculating expression that remained unflappable even in the face of Mistle’s constant complaining.

“Do we really need to have a dress made from scratch?” the blonde whined. “This itches worse than sleeping in hay. Which I’ve done. A lot.”

“You shouldn’t have asked for a lavish ball then,” Yennefer said pitilessly, seated in a chair with one leg folded over the other. “One simply doesn’t show up to one of those things with a dress purchased off a rack.”

Mistle grumbled.

“Just be patient,” urged Ciri. “In a minute I’ll be up there and you can laugh at me all you want.”

“I’ll try to contain my joy.”

Yennefer turned to address Ciri. “How long has it been since you wore a dress?”

“Honestly? I’ve not worn one since Kaer Morhen. Triss came up with it as a way to signal to the boys that I was… indisposed.”

The sorceress nearly managed to hide her jaw clenching at the mention of Triss. Ciri groaned.

“Are we ever going to be able to talk about her without things getting awkward?” she asked. “I mean, you won. Geralt chose you over her. Why are you still mad at her?”

“Whatever gave you the impression that I was angry with her over _that_?” Yennefer’s face remained cool and composed, but her eyes betrayed her. “Triss and I knew each other long before Geralt came into the picture. His little romantic dilemma has precisely nothing to do with the status of our friendship.”

“Oh really? It wouldn’t be the first time it caused strife between the two of you. I remember you rubbing it in her face all the way from Montecalvo to Rivia, right up until…”

She stopped, seeing the pain in Yennefer’s eyes that she tried stubbornly to hide, but couldn’t.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Come to think of it, _that_ was the last time I wore a dress. When the Lodge summoned us to discuss my future. Can you believe the man they wanted me to marry is the same one Triss is serving now?”

“Yes, all roads lead back to Triss.”

“Are you angry with her because of the Lodge? I thought you settled that years ago.”

“I’m sorry, but there are certain matters I don’t wish to discuss. With anyone.”

“Is it because she’s shacked up with—”

Lightning flashed in Yennefer’s violet eyes and she whirled her head in her direction. “Where did you even hear that?”

“Probably the same place you did. Rumors spread everywhere.”

“Put it out of your mind. It’s probably not even true.”

“But it is what’s upset you,” she said triumphantly. “It’s written all over your face.”

“Drop it, Ciri. I won’t warn you again.”

Ciri stared hard at Yennefer, who returned the gaze with a look of cold steel. Okay then. If she didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine. Maybe Triss herself would be more likely to shed light on the matter, if she ever saw her again.

“Done,” the couturier said, breaking the tension. “Now we must choose the fabric.”

“Of course,” said Yennefer. “We’ll need something suitably extravagant, yet not tacky. It must command attention while not being so revealing as to give the game away. And then there’s the matter of how well it matches the color scheme of the event, not to mention that you’ll be attending as a pair, and your outfits must coordinate.”

“I don’t suppose comfort is something to consider?” Mistle asked desperately.

“Come now, don’t be ridiculous. If you want to look smashing, you must be prepared to suffer.”

* * *

After the dresses had been ordered, the three women explored the Hauteville district, the center of the city’s elite. The level of art on display was extraordinary and far more prominent than any city that Ciri had ever been to. There were painters, sculptors, even purveyors of blown glass. Yennefer paused to buy a glass replica of a unicorn, unable to resist.

They stopped for food, buying artisanal bread and cheese, washing it down with wine at an outdoor café. They were on their way out of the city, back to the vineyard, when Ciri saw Mistle stop abruptly.

Above a store front, on a sign that looked as though it had been torn from the side of a wagon, was an exquisitely hand painted rendering of the word “Tattoo.”

“Do you think…?”

She shook her head. “There’s no way.”

“Should we go inside anyway?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Where are you two scampering off to?” Yennefer asked in a harsh, commanding tone.

“We’ll only be a minute,” promised Ciri, already moving towards the door. Mistle was close behind on her heels.

The sorceress sighed and followed them inside.

The tattoo parlor was surprisingly cozy, with various bits of art placed around the walls, as a testament to the artist’s skills. Ciri reasoned that it also got the imagination flowing, whether the customer showed up on a drunken impulse or after anticipating it for months.

A tall, lanky man stood behind the counter, currently engrossed in his sketchbook. Mistle slammed her hands down on the counter. “Hi there!”

The man sighed. “How may I help…” He trailed off after seeing her face, as well as Ciri’s behind her. “By the gods!”

He scrambled backward, stopping only when he hit the wall behind the counter. His hands fumbled for a door that was five feet away from him. Mistle only smiled.

“Hello, Almavera. Remember us?” She glanced around the shop. “Seems like you’ve stepped up your operation since we last met.”

“How did you find me?”

Mistle shrugged. “Believe it or not, this is just one big happy coincidence. Recognized your sign and decided to pop in. How are things?”

After realizing that his life was not in danger, the tattoo artist known as Almavera calmed down and returned to the counter. “Things are… things are fine. I’m doing very well, thank you.”

“You ought to be, given how much we paid you back then.”

“What is she talking about?” Yennefer muttered to Ciri.

Ciri smiled. “Yennefer, meet Almavera. He’s a tattoo artist that Mistle and I met a few years ago, back when he still travelled village to village in his wagon.”

“We stopped him as he was passing through a trading post we’d captured,” said Mistle. “He didn’t have enough coin to pay our toll, so we took it out of him in trade. He gave the two of us matching tattoos.”

“What kind of tattoo?”

Blushing, Ciri looked in the exact opposite direction of the glaring sorceress. “A red rose.”

“Where is this tattoo? I’ve never seen it.”

Her face turned an even brighter shade of crimson.

“Oh, for the love of…”

“One thing I can’t get over,” said Mistle, “is that even after you did that to earn your passage, Hotspurn still made us pay you. I think you owe us.”

“No he doesn’t,” said Ciri. “He’d paid his protection money and we just weren’t up to date on the new sign. We squared it back then.”

“Did we? He paid protection to Hotspurn, sure, but he died the next morning. Who’s protecting him now?”

“The Ducal Guard, for one.”

“And me for another,” said Yennefer. “Rob whomever you want on the highway. But while you’re here, under our care, using Ciri’s connections to grant your petty little wish, you will behave yourself. You don’t want to find out what I’m prepared to do to enforce that.”

Mistle shrugged. “You’re no fun.”

“We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Ciri said to Almavera, reaching into her coin purse and pulling out twenty florins. “Keep this our little secret?”

He nodded slowly, eyes wide.

“Have a nice day,” she said as they moved out of the shop. He stared after them.

“Y-you too…”

* * *

They arrived back at the Corvo Bianco vineyard at sunset. Ciri and Mistle decided to spend some time exploring the vineyard, and Yennefer finally gave up on trying to chaperone them. They were close enough at hand that she could still maintain some level of awareness, and Ciri knew how to handle herself. If there was one thing Yennefer could proudly say, it was that she had raised Ciri to be her own woman.

Her feelings hadn’t changed regarding the relationship between the two young women, of course. Mistle was bad news, and she could see right away where such a relationship would end up. And from what Ciri had told them, it had already ended there once. But ultimately she couldn’t force Ciri to see things the way she did. She would have to learn it on her own.

She stepped inside the house, and saw Geralt waiting for her. What stood beside him took her breath away.

The gown was beautiful. Deep black satin interspersed with virgin white cloth, with a modest neckline and mesmerizing pattern. She had worn many outfits of similar quality, but none that seemed so perfectly tailored to her. The cloth was thin and looked breathable, which was a godsend in this heat. And here she thought Geralt had no taste at all.

“I hope you didn’t already order one,” he said, and she chuckled.

“To be perfectly honest, I already had plenty of passable outfits in my closet. Did Agda make that?”

Geralt nodded. “I saw her about a week ago. I just paid her earlier today with the money I made from the Archespore contract. Worth every copper judging by the look on your face.”

A wry grin spread across her features. “Well done, Witcher. I must find a suitable reward for you.”

“I can think of a few,” he said, stepping closer.

“Indeed.” She led him by the hand towards the bedroom. “I must confess I’m still feeling the effects of the statue. And I’m eager to test my hypothesis.”

He gave a deep, exhausted sigh. “Can’t we use the bed? Just once?”

She smirked and pulled him in closer for a kiss. “Not on your life.”


	4. A Fine Shindig

Like vampires, the rich and powerful came out at night. Especially when there was a ball to attend. The elite members of Toussaint’s high society were all invited, and most were happy to attend. The Duchess threw marvelous parties, and there were few who would refuse such an invitation.

Geralt of Rivia would normally count himself among those few. But he was doing this for Ciri, and that meant that what he wanted didn’t matter. Besides, he’d bought that gown for Yennefer for just such an occasion, after the sorceress constantly pestered him about attending the numerous parties, balls, and soirees that always seemed to be happening. Too bad Regis wasn’t around anymore. He’d trade this for drinks in a cemetery in a heartbeat.

The pomp on display outmatched the banquet on Thanedd by several orders of magnitude. At the very least, the people attending this event understood modesty, which had put Yennefer a bit more at ease. Still, Geralt had learned over the years that the sorceress actually enjoyed frightening off those she saw as a threat to her claim on him. It was only recently that he stopped putting that to the test.

She had picked out a black doublet for him with red accents and an extremely intricate pattern. It was even fancier than the one he’d worn to the reward ceremony, the last official function he’d attended in Beauclair. What surprised him most was how comfortable the whole outfit was. It didn’t itch or restrict his movement at all. He’d definitely be keeping it.

The gown he’d gotten for her left both shoulders bare, while the dress itself went almost to her neck, showing the slightest hint of her collarbone. Yennefer had never made a habit of baring much skin in all the time he’d known her, a privilege she bestowed only on a few and only in private. Still, it wasn’t modesty that led her to choose such a style of dress. The more she covered up, the more he found himself thinking of what lay underneath.

They were waiting in line for their names to be announced before they stepped into the ball proper. Geralt paid no attention to the people in front of them, focusing entirely on Yennefer.

“Are you doing alright?” she asked, deigning to show some concern for his badly concealed discomfort.

“I’m just glad there’s not a ghost possessing me.”

“Why would you be concerned about that?”

“When I was the one serving Gaunter O’Dimm, I had to show Olgierd von Everec’s brother Vlodomir the best night of his life. The problem was, Vlodomir was dead, and had been for years. It just so happened that Shani had invited me to a wedding as her date.”

“Shani? That little string bean from Oxenfurt Academy?”

“Yeah. I’d run into her while working the contract Olgierd gave me to eliminate a monster in the sewers. At any rate, I visited the von Everec family crypt, performed a blood summoning, and gave Vlodomir temporary control of my body in order to fulfill the wish.”

“A blood summoning? Where’d you get his blood if he’d been dead that long?”

“Somehow, Gaunter O’Dimm had it. Turns out you only need the blood of someone related to the summoned.”

“I see. How did the whole thing turn out?”

“He spent the whole night hitting on Shani, mostly. He tried to keep possessing me after he hit the deadline, but Gaunter O’Dimm sent him back to his crypt. The screams he made still give me nightmares.”

Yennefer smiled. “You get involved in the most ridiculous adventures when I’m not around.”

“Anyway, I’m glad tonight will be mostly normal. Even if it at least looks straight out of a fairy tale.”

“General Morvran Voorhis and Baroness Maria Louisa La Valette!”

“Voorhis? What’s the general of the Alba Division doing here?”

“And with the Baroness, no less,” added Yennefer. “I suppose being part of the Guild of Merchants does grant one an invitation to these sorts of things.”

“He was getting pretty friendly with the Baroness when I met them in Novigrad,” said Geralt. “Guess he’s given up on marrying Ciri.”

“Death does tend to dampen one’s prospects.”

“I’m surprised he’s in Toussaint at all,” said Geralt. “Considering I overheard his name being spoken when Stefan Skellen, Joachim de Wett and the others plotted a coup the last time I stayed in Toussaint.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “You just happened to overhear a plot to overthrow the Emperor? While doing what?”

“A contract. It’s also how I found out where Vilgefortz was holding you.”

“And you believe that to be an utter coincidence?”

He shook his head. “No. But it wouldn’t be my first run-in with Destiny.”

“Rosa and Edna var Attre!”

“Huh, guess their parents let them out of Novigrad too. Better hope Rosa doesn’t get her hands on a sword.”

“Indeed. That might threaten to add liveliness to this whole affair.”

“I thought you liked parties.”

“I do, but they’re so much more entertaining when a fight breaks out. That’s one thing the other nations should copy from Skellige.” She paused and put a finger to her chin, then looked up at him. “How did you know about Rosa’s fencing obsession?”

“I gave her a couple lessons in Novigrad.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “Oh _did_ you?”

“They really were just fencing lessons,” he insisted. “I was tricked into it. I was trying to track down Dandelion at the time. Her name was in his journal as one of the women he was wooing.”

“Now it makes sense.”

“Nothing even happened between them. Edna wrote a love letter to Dandelion and signed Rosa’s name, then sat back and watched her prank play out.”

“ _Twins_.”

“Lady Vivienne de Tabris and Baron Palmerin de Launfal!”

“Uh oh. Guillaume’s not gonna be happy she showed up with his uncle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guillaume de Launfal is madly in love with Vivienne,” he explained. “He had me enter the tournament to get up close to her because he believed she was cursed. Thing is, he was right. Vivienne had been cursed before she was born to slowly transform into an oriole. I managed to break the curse by transferring it to an unhatched oriole chick, and she was grateful to Guillaume for getting me to lift the curse, but things didn’t work out the way he wanted them to.”

“You mean the part where she was supposed to fall into his arms and shower him with love just because he hired someone else entirely to save her? How on earth did he imagine that working?”

“That’s the downside of pretending you live in a fairy tale. Real life never ends the way you want it to.”

“Sir Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg!”

They moved forward into the palace ballroom, a tremendous, majestic chamber that once more showed off the genius of Aen Seidhe architecture. White marble and gold leafing was surrounded by ornate banners detailing various pieces of heraldry all united under the common crest of Toussaint. On all sides were massive doors with large glass panes which opened to various balconies. It was such a dazzling sight that one could easily mistake it for a dream.

“Geralt of Rivia!” Morvran Voorhis greeted enthusiastically as he and the Baroness made their way over to the couple. “And Yennefer of Vengerberg. So lovely to see you both.”

“Good to see you too, Voorhis,” he replied, inclining his head slightly. “Enjoying yourself now that the war’s over?”

“Am I ever! They say there’s profit to be made in wartime, but that goes doubly so for the peace that immediately follows. There’s no shortage of people who need to replace what they lost during the conflict, which means plenty of profits for someone with my business connections. I try not to take too much advantage.”

“How noble of you,” Yennefer said with false charm. She turned to the Baroness. “You’ve been spending time together?”

Maria Louisa La Valette smiled, displaying an equally forced politeness. “Indeed. Morvran has been taking me on a tour of the various territories of Nilfgaard. They say he has a strong chance of becoming the next emperor.”

“Riding that train to the top, I see.”

“I’ll have you know that I greatly admire him,” she insisted, rubbing her hand along the general’s sleeve. “He’s an exquisitely charming man who knows how to treat a lady.”

“Yes, shower her in gold and show her off like a prize parrot, and she’ll fawn all over you.”

Geralt smirked. “I’ve been doing it all wrong this whole time, then.”

“Indeed you have, dear. I say all this in jest, of course,” she lied. “You two look marvelous together.”

“You are witty as ever,” said Voorhis, clearly unbothered by the display even as the Baroness’ face was busy inventing new shades of red. “But we must meet the other guests. Geralt, I hope I will see you at the horse races soon. I’m eager to see how this year’s tourney victor does on the track.”

He nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

“We should continue to mingle,” Yennefer suggested once they were alone again. “At least enjoy ourselves. Our two guests of honor will be announced once all the normal guests filter in, after the Duchess has made her entrance. The good news is, none of the people in this room have ever seen Ciri in person, so we should be able to get through tonight without them recognizing her.”

“Philippa Eilhart and Triss Merigold!”

“Shit.”

* * *

Triss looked around the ballroom in wonder. She’d attended many balls, bashes, soirees and banquets before, but this made all of them look like a drunken hoedown in the woods by comparison. She thought she knew riches and splendor in the North, but it was clear now that she had been sorely mistaken. _This_ was what wealth and extravagance really looked like.

It wasn’t wasteful, however. Every element served a clear and definite purpose, from the various wines carried by an army of servants to seemingly endless tables of the finest hors d’oeuvres, the performers scattered throughout the crowd and the band playing on a raised platform, it all fit together like a puzzle.

She had let her fiery red hair down for the evening, releasing it from the twin bons she normally kept tied in the back. She hadn’t worn her hair like this in years. Not since she stayed at a place that was the furthest north she had ever been. She wore a forest green dress with an elaborate gold pattern woven into it rather than simply printed on top. The dress was extremely low cut and strapless, held in place by an elastic band and, if that failed, a spell. It was nowhere close to modest, but that was the point. She wanted people to stare.

It cost a small fortune, but she had that kind of money now. Serving as advisor to King Tankred Thyssen, ruler of Kovir and Poviss, had earned her a tidy pile of coin in a very short amount of time.

The woman next to her wore her hair in long pigtails as usual, with a piece of ornate cloth over her eyes and an even more lavishly expensive dress with well defined décolletage. Years ago, no one would have expected Philippa Eilhart, the Jewel of Tretogor, to be gracing a ballroom in Toussaint in the name of Nilfgaard, but then no one had predicted Radovid V and his thankfully short reign of terror, which Philippa had put an end to personally.

She wasn’t entirely sure why Philippa had called her via megascope and invited her here, but it involved the Lodge, and Triss wasn’t one to miss occasions like this. Besides, this wasn’t the first time in recent memory that they’d mixed business with pleasure.

Their names were announced and they moved into the space, silent the whole way. They said their greetings to various guests, but Triss was more interested in simply soaking in the experience. Toussaint was a land where the wildest of dreams could come true, a place right out of a fairy tale. Fringilla Vigo had told her that, and she hadn’t been exaggerating. If anything, she’d undersold the place.

There was one other thing she’d heard about Toussaint, but she wasn’t expecting to deal with it tonight. After all, why would he be _here_?

Reality answered her question as they moved further into the room, and she saw hair white as milk, alongside hair dark as raven’s feathers. Her heart skipped a beat as the pair walked towards them.

“Geralt? Yennefer? What are you doing here?”

Yennefer of Vengerberg smiled widely. “I could very well ask you the same thing. We helped put it together, actually. Geralt is acquainted with the Duchess.”

“Oh really?”

He nodded. “Came through Toussaint a few years back. Just recently I was contracted to kill a monster that had been murdering some of her knights. Turned out to be a higher vampire.”

“She gave Geralt a vineyard for his efforts,” the raven-haired sorceress finished. “It’s a lovely place, you should drop by sometime.”

“I just might.”

“We were invited as well,” said Philippa. “Formally, an invitation must be sent to the Royal Court, but the Emperor never attends a ball that he didn’t organize himself. I am here to represent his interests.”

“And Triss?”

“Is my date.”

Yennefer looked over the two of them, her violet eyes gleaming with intrigue. “Back together, then? That worked out so well last time.”

“Spare us your childish ribbing,” Philippa replied. “I don’t ask you to justify your attraction to this one.”

“As I recall, the last party where you two interacted you told Geralt of how you could induce pleasure without needing all the sticky bits leading up to it.”

She smirked. “Oh, please. Like everybody who attended the banquet on Thanedd I was trying to get him on my side, or at least to garner information. That’s not necessary here.”

“Glad to hear it. Although I would love to know if Triss can verify your ability to skip the foreplay.”

“That’s enough, Yennefer,” Triss said harshly. “Philippa and I are happy together. Back off.”

“As you wish.”

What was her problem? Yennefer had a reputation for being a sarcastic, arrogant pain in the arse at parties, but her tone seemed more vindictive than usual. The actual words could be construed as light teasing if she wasn’t looking at Triss like she planned to put her through a wall. It was a look she’d only seen from her once before, but that time it was over a teleprojection. In person she looked far more menacing.

Hadn’t they put their grievances to rest already? The Lodge had come together to save Ciri from the Wild Hunt, and they’d all parted, she had thought, as friends. Yennefer was the one who walked off into the sunset with Geralt, leaving the rest of them to deal with cleaning up the aftermath of the war. If anything, Triss should be the one angry with her.

But they’d been down that road before. Whatever the cause was for Yennefer’s current animosity, they would resolve it in time. After all, they were friends.

Right?

 ‘ _Triss._ ’

She looked up at the dark-haired sorceress, who met her eyes and maintained their telepathic connection.

‘ _Yennefer? Why are you using telepathy?_ ’

’ _I must be brief. I’m not sure how much of this Philippa can hear._ ’

‘ _She can’t eavesdrop on us without us noticing. She’s not that powerful_.’

‘ _Be that as it may, we still don’t have much time. Are you aware who the guests of honor are?_ ’

‘ _I don’t really remember. A couple minor nobles from Ebbing and Maecht, I think._ ’

‘ _In a minute, their names will be announced, and you will see them enter the room. You must not betray your surprise, and you should keep Philippa from seeing them._ ’

‘ _Why? What’s so important that you want me to lie?_ ’

‘ _You’ll see._ ’

The other sorceress cut off the connection, then she and Geralt politely left. Triss was puzzled, and did not bother to hide that fact. She turned to Philippa, who seemed entirely unconcerned.

“Well that was interesting.”

“Indeed. They say no witcher has ever died in his bed, but Geralt just might be the first. If he can’t be killed by a higher vampire, I don’t foresee anything doing the trick.”

“Don’t tell me you plan on trying.”

“It might make for an interesting diversion. But it wouldn’t serve the Empire, which I must at least be seen doing this evening.”

She laughed, and they moved on to the hors d’oeuvres. Triss had grown less concerned with watching her figure after practically starving to death had stopped being a lifestyle choice and simply became her life while she hid like a rat in Novigrad and ate scraps to survive. Diets had stopped making sense to her after that, and being with Philippa provided plenty of exercise if nothing else.

“Mmm,” she moaned, savoring an exquisite slice of artisanal cheese. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

“Don’t get lost in the food, Triss. We’re here on business.”

“Sorry. I just haven’t had anything this tasty in—“

“Miss Merigold?”

She turned around to see a tall blonde man wearing an extravagant purple outfit. He was smiling at her, and after a moment she remembered his face.

“Albert?”

Albert Vegelbud bowed in greeting. “You remember! Thank you once again for your help. Now I’m free to practice my alchemy without fear of witch hunters.”

“Is your mother here?”

“Sadly, no. But she sends her regards.”

“What’s the story behind this one?” asked Philippa.

“Like Albert said, witch hunters were after him because he bragged about his alchemy openly in Novigrad. His mother offered enough money to help me get all the mages in the city to Kovir as long as I helped him escape. She threw a huge banquet, which Geralt and I attended. We helped Albert flee once the guests were drunk enough not to notice.”

“You attended with Geralt?”

“Nothing happened,” she insisted. “I got a little drunk, made a move, but he helped me come to my senses. Whatever there was between us died after Loc Muinne.” She sighed wistfully. “The fireworks were beautiful, though.”

“Did you like them? I customized the formulae myself!”

“They were amazing, Albert. I’m glad you’re alive and safe.”

“All thanks to you, Miss Merigold.” He bowed slightly. “If you will excuse me, I must try these grapes.”

Triss chuckled and stopped blocking the food table. Albert retrieved the grapes in question and moved back into the crowd, and shortly afterward a bell rang.

“Her Illustrious Highness, Duchess Anna Henrietta!”

The Duchess entered the room from the opposite end of where the guests came in, clad in a golden, flowing gown decorated with hundreds of small diamonds and sapphires. Diamonds also hung from her ears and around her neck, and her tiara rested atop beautifully done hair. Though a Duchess, she looked every bit like a Queen. She stood to the side, awaiting the announcement of the guests of honor.

“Countess Falka of Ebbing, and Countess Mistle of Thurn!”

The name Falka and all its associated memories jolted through her, and she looked more closely. This far away, the two women were just out of Philippa’s magically simulated sight. A good thing, too. She didn’t recognize the blonde dressed in rich saffron with scarlet accents, standing next to an ashen-haired woman dressed in an off white gown decorated with blue fabric arranged in expensive looking patterns. It was a far cry from the first dress she had seen her in, when she came out of her room at Kaer Morhen and said she was indisposed.

So that’s what Yennefer meant. She did her best to conceal her surprise, and when that failed, made sure Philippa couldn’t see her face.

‘ _Oh no._ ’

* * *

Ciri wasn’t used to being the center of attention. For so long she interacted with the world by passing quickly from one place to the next, leaving only a memory behind her. People always had a story to tell about her, but she interacted with them one on one, or in small groups. Now she had an entire ballroom of people staring at her, and suddenly she felt extremely small.

The dress wasn’t helping. It stood in stark contrast to the layered, poofy, fairy tale style favored by the Duchess and by extension her entire court. It was sleek, form-fitting, and white, with intricate designs stitched in blue that depicted a flock of silhouetted swallows taking flight. The dress left one shoulder bare, held up on that side by a narrow strap so thin it may as well not have been there. It seemed strong enough to protect her modesty, though. The skirt would be a problem if she had to fight anybody, but she didn’t see the need to worry about that.

Mistle wore a similar dress, with only a difference in color scheme and general pattern. Saffron and scarlet formed an unlikely complement to her own ensemble that Ciri wouldn’t have picked herself. But she trusted Yennefer’s judgment when it came to fashion.

Her one consolation was that Mistle looked every bit as uncomfortable in her own skin. She held Ciri’s hand as they walked forward, provoking some awkward stares from some of the partygoers. Fine then. Let them stare. She breathed deeply and they walked forward together.

“Regretting your wish yet?”

“No. It’s just a bit much to take in.”

“Nervous in front of all these people?”

“You kidding me? I love attention. I’m worried they’ll recognize you.”

“We’ll deal with that if it comes to it. Yennefer can wipe their minds or something.”

“She can?”

Ciri nodded. “She’s a sorceress. She can do almost anything.”

“That’s good to know.”

Anna Henrietta stepped in front of them, smiling precisely as much as etiquette demanded. That wasn’t to say her enthusiasm was forced. She actually had to tone it down.

“Welcome, ladies! As your hostess, it is our honor to introduce you to the most important of the guests. Others will introduce themselves to you over the course of the evening.”

She inclined her head. “Lead on then, Your Grace.”

The Duchess led them through the various small groups that had been forming, stopping first by an extremely beautiful blonde woman standing next to a bald man with mutton chops who looked like he had been in a scrap or two. He was dressed in ornamental golden armor, which had its own share of battle scars. Engraved into the chest plate were a set of wings underneath a crown, a piece of steel contrasting against the gold surrounding it. This must be one of the knights errant she had heard so much about.

“We introduce to you the Lady Vivienne de Tabris, and her escort for the evening, the honorable Baron Palmerin de Launfal. Lady Vivienne, Sir Palmerin, this is the Countess Falka of Ebbing, and the Countess Mistle of Thurn. They have recently come into possession of the land surrounding Tesham Mutna, via an inheritance.”

“Upon my word, it is delightful to see you both!” Palmerin gave a formal bow and lifted up each of their hands, placing a kiss on the back one at a time. “Welcome to Toussaint!”

“I am also pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Vivienne, smiling fairly. “Tesham Mutna, you say? There’s no vineyard there. Only some old ruins.”

“Which are of great historical significance,” Anna Henrietta quickly clarified, holding a finger in the air. “It is not considered working land of course, but both the ladies have plenty of that where they hail from. This does make each of them a Countess, however.”

“And how is it the ladies came to share a common inheritance?” she asked. “Are the two of you…” She looked back and forth between the two of them. “Together?”

Ciri braced herself. “We are.”

“How wonderful!” Vivienne de Tabris gestured animatedly, but quickly composed herself. “I could tell at once that you were in love!”

That was unexpected. But after all the other reactions she’d faced in her time, she wasn’t about to complain.

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

“You’ll get a different reaction from those who came here straight from Nilfgaard,” she told them. “But I believe love wears many faces.”

“And you two?” asked Mistle. “Are the two of you… together?”

“Gods, no! Sir Palmerin is here for my protection.”

Ciri’s eyes widened a bit. “Is it rude to ask why?”

“Not really, but the whole thing is a touch embarrassing. His nephew is… well, he’s quite smitten with me, beyond the point of reason. I requested his uncle as my escort in hopes that it would ward him off.”

“And for good measure, we made sure Guillaume was not invited,” added the Duchess.

“My nephew is fundamentally a good man,” said Palmerin. “But when reality fails to conform to his expectations, he has a tendency to try and force it.”

Ciri connected the dots. “You mean you’re afraid he’d try to…?”

“By the heavens, no! But the Lady has made it clear she does not wish to see him nor speak to him, and Guillaume has repeatedly refused to listen, believing in his heart of hearts that he can somehow win her over. He came to blows with the last escort, so it was decided to have me fulfill the duty, since he would never attack family.”

“After all the other lines he’s crossed, that one may just be a matter of time.”

“Let us hope that is not the case.”

“It has been lovely seeing you,” said Anna Henrietta. “But you must excuse us so we can continue introducing the ladies to the other guests. Farewell.”

“To you as well,” said Vivienne, who looked at Ciri. “I hope we can talk more later.”

“I hope so too.”

They weaved through the party, arriving finally at a pair of what appeared to be twin sisters. They both wore black and gold dresses, but the pattern was reversed for each, so that one had black where the other had gold. Their hair was done up finely, and they wore matching jewelry. If not for the dresses, Ciri would not have been able to tell them apart.

“We present to you Rosa and Edna var Attre,” said Anna Henrietta. “The twin daughters of Henry var Attre, the Nilfgaardian ambassador stationed in Novigrad. They are currently traveling the Empire’s various provinces. Ladies, these are the Countesses Falka of Ebbing, and Mistle of Thurn.”

Ciri glanced between them. “Which is which?”

“I’m Edna,” said the one on the left, whose dress contained mostly black, “and this is Rosa.”

“Or am I really Edna?” said the other one, and the two of them giggled.

“The training scars on your fingers tell us that you are Rosa,” the Duchess replied, then turned to the two of them. “Rosa is a champion fencer with few equals.”

“I’d like to test that,” said Ciri.

Rosa looked her over. “Not in that gown, I hope.”

“Grab a sword later and let’s find out.”

“There will be time for fun and games later, ladies,” Anna Henrietta said, smiling wryly. “For now we must keep moving. Farewell.”

“So long!” said Edna.

“I look forward to our duel,” said Rosa. “It really will be a shame to cut that dress into ribbons.”

Ciri decided against parting with a rude gesture and continued following Anna Henrietta around. Over the next half hour or so, they were introduced to more courtiers and foreign dignitaries than she could possibly keep track of. Finally, they came upon a man who currently had his back turned. He was clad in a yellow and blue doublet, which was ornate and faintly sinister. She inhaled sharply before the Duchess even said his name.

“And finally, at the gentleman’s request, we introduce you to another honored guest. A former merchant of mirrors, if we remember correctly. Falka of Ebbing and Mistle of Thurn, this is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

He turned around, smiling widely. “Hello,” he greeted. “I am simply enchanted to meet you.”

* * *

Guiding Philippa around to where she wouldn’t notice Ciri without letting her know she was being guided proved more difficult than Triss had initially thought. The other woman was more commonly the one doing the manipulating, so it became a tense game in which Triss would suddenly notice something or get caught in a conversation with someone she otherwise wouldn’t care about, drawing Philippa in by saying things that were sure to get her attention. Usually things she disagreed with.

Philippa was fairly irritated with her halfway through the evening, which she considered a regrettable but necessary sacrifice. Philippa had said herself that she was here to serve the Emperor’s interests, and those included getting his hands on Ciri like he had been trying to since the very first Northern War. Besides, her dalliance with Philippa was born more out of convenience than actual feeling. They liked each other and enjoyed spending time together, but what they had wasn’t love. Triss knew what love felt like, but that door had already been closed.

After a while, the woman who had kept pace with several master spies and even outclassed them in cunning began to grow suspicious, at which point Triss felt it necessary to switch tactics. She made sure they found their way back to a certain happy couple.

“Geralt, can I borrow Yennefer? I need to talk to her for a minute.”

The Witcher raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “I don’t see why not. Though I doubt I’ll be able to keep Philippa company as well as you.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Don’t be long,” said Philippa.

“I promise.” She turned to Yennefer. “Are you coming?”

“Very well then,” said the other sorceress. “Let’s talk.”

They made their way across the ballroom and out one of the open doors, which led down into the gardens. A significant portion of the guests had made their way there, and were currently engaging in various games. One involved tossing a bag filled with beans into a series of hollow poles arranged like an organ, with different point values assigned to various holes drilled into them through which the beanbag was thrown.

Another crowd had gathered around an illusionist, who made fantastical creatures appear from thin air, to the delight of those without magical talent. Triss and Yennefer regarded the amateur trickery with utter indifference.

A miniature Gwent tournament had started in one corner of the gardens, with five tables currently set up. From what Triss had heard, Geralt’s deck was fairly impressive, and he’d won a couple tournaments himself. She had never quite taken an interest in the game, but apparently had a card named after her, as did Yennefer. She missed the days when people only knew them from ballads.

Finally they reached an abandoned alcove with a view overlooking Seidhe Llygad, the lake bordering Beauclair from the eastern Hauteville side. They could see boats carrying several couples along the water, illuminated by floating lanterns. They found a bench and sat down, having not said a word to each other since the ballroom.

“So Ciri’s alive.”

“She is.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? You know I can keep a secret.”

“Even under torture? This way you couldn’t give away information you didn’t have.”

“That’s bullshit, Yenna. You’re mad at me for something. That’s why you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t tell you because I never had the opportunity,” the other sorceress said, honestly this time. “I went as far away from Nilfgaard and sovereigns in general as I could possibly get. I was only ever in Emhyr’s service to find Ciri. Now I’m done with politics.”

“I’m not. Half the continent is still in shambles because of the war. Kovir has the money to help, but Nilfgaard has the manpower. Ever since the amnesty, Emhyr’s been working closely with the Lodge and even heeding some of our advice. At the very least we got him to put an end to the public executions in Novigrad.”

“Are you ever going to stop trying to save the world?”

“It doesn’t seem likely.”

“That’s a shame.”

“At least I can see further than five feet around me,” she replied. “I care about the bigger picture, not just myself.”

“You don’t care about yourself at all. You’ve always put your own needs last, Triss. One of these days that’s going to get you killed.”

“I don’t think your selfishness protects you from death any better.”

“Touché.”

Despite herself, Triss suddenly started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I missed this, Yenna. We were friends once, remember?”

“I was under the impression we still are.”

“That’s not what I mean. Before any of this shit happened with Geralt, Nilfgaard, Ciri, or the Lodge, we’d meet a few times a year and just talk. It didn’t matter what it was about. We never agreed on anything, but we always got along. I miss that.”

“I miss it too.”

“So are you gonna tell me what’s bothering you?”

Yennefer grew still, looking out over the lake and the boats. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Is it Ciri? I told you, I feel exactly the same way about her as you do. Philippa and Rita are the ones who wanted to put her in charge of the Lodge.”

“It’s not that.”

“Geralt?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Triss frowned. “It’s Philippa, isn’t it?”

She said nothing.

“What’s the problem? Who I see is my business. We’re happy together.”

“Are you really? Or can you just not stand to be alone?”

“I can be alone!” she shouted, rocketing to her feet. “I’ve been alone! I was alone in Novigrad, and I survived just fine! You’re the one who can’t be on your own!”

“Calm down, Triss.”

“I am calm!” She sat down in a huff. “I am calm,” she repeated more quietly.

“That’s better.”

“Come on, Yenna,” she pleaded. “Be honest with me.”

“Do you recall what happened shortly after the last time I discovered you and Philippa were together?”

She nodded. “You got captured by Vilgefortz.”

“I did.”

“What does us being in a relationship have to do with that?”

“Absolutely nothing.” She continued staring at the boats. “But when I see the two of you together, I can’t think of anything else.”

Triss sighed, and her temper subsided. Slowly, she put an arm around Yennefer and brought her into a hug. After a minute or so, she released her.

“I’ve heard of cases like that. Sometimes an event is so traumatic that it lingers in your mind long after it’s over. And sometimes seeing tangentially related but very specific things can bring those memories back. Your body thinks the danger’s not over, and you can have panic attacks or even hallucinate the event, reliving it in a way.”

“I know. That’s what Nenneke told me when I asked her.”

“Have you been dealing with that this whole time?”

“The panic attacks don’t happen anymore. I have nightmares sometimes. But it’s my burden to bear. As I said, you should think about yourself more often.”

Triss placed her hands on her knees and stared straight ahead. “I had no idea. I had a hard time dealing with things after Sodden Hill, but I got through it years ago. Was Nenneke able to help at least?”

“She gave me some herbs that calmed me,” she answered. “And then we talked. For hours. Days. She said I had to relive the experience so my body could understand that I wasn’t still in danger. And it worked. For a while. But every so often something triggers a memory and I have to be alone for a time.”

“I’m so sorry, Yenna.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault.”

“Does Geralt know?”

“He does. Sometimes I wish I’d undergone those mutations. It would be nice not to feel this way.”

“I’m not going to be with Philippa forever,” she revealed. “She’s using me and I’m using her, and both of us knew that going in. It’s just for fun.”

“I understand. It’s quite the opposite with me and Geralt.”

Triss stiffened, then exhaled deeply. “Well, not all of us are lucky enough to have our fates bound by a wish.”

“We’re not. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found another Djinn,” Yennefer explained. “Geralt helped me weaken it and I freed it in exchange for undoing the wish that bound us. I thought it would feel different after. But the way I feel about him stayed exactly the same. For him as well.”

She frowned and turned away. “Guess that means you really were meant for each other.”

“Triss, what’s wrong?”

“You might be over our little love triangle, but I’m sure as hell not.” She turned to face her again. “What you told me just now helps me understand why you said all those things on the way to Rivia, but they still hurt.”

Yennefer turned to her, a sad understanding in her eyes. “I never apologized for that, did I?”

“No, and I don’t need you to. You were right. I swore I’d never let Geralt get between us, but after listening to Fringilla report back on how much she’d been fucking him silly, I got a little… okay, a _lot_ jealous. Even though he hadn’t returned my feelings in years at that point. You saw right through that.”

“I still hurt you, and for that I’m sorry. I wasn’t as careful with my words back then.”

“Well, it wasn’t just back then. After both of you disappeared and Geralt suddenly showed back up again, I practically threw myself at him. We’ve never talked about it, but I know you’re still mad at me for that on some level.”

Yennefer smiled impishly. “The last time I was at Kaer Morhen, I threw the bed out the window.”

“Hey! I liked that bed.”

“That’s why I did it. I was angry that Geralt had kept it even after you two broke things off. I directed all my anger about it towards him, because I knew he could take it. I’m afraid I’ve none left.”

“You should have directed a little of it my way,” said Triss. “He had the excuse of losing his memory, but I knew exactly what I was doing. I just had no reason to believe you would ever come back. And I’ll be honest: after all the times you rubbed it in my face over the years, I wanted to get back at you a little.”

She looked down. “I regret that now.”

“You shouldn’t. I’d have done the same in your shoes. There was a time I’d have never let you hear the end of it, but now that thought wearies me. He’s the one I blame, memory loss or not. I know that’s not rational, but I just don’t feel like taking it out on you anymore. The version of me that would died that day in Rivia.”

“Well, if you don’t still hold anything against me I might be able to forgive myself one day,” she said, then smiled hopefully. “Still friends?”

“Of course.”

The smile brightened. Yennefer smiled back.

“You know, I almost regret that we’ve probably missed our chance to have a go at each other for a change.”

Triss laughed. “Oh yeah? How do you see that working?”

“Not for very long. But it could be fun.”

“I’m sure it would drive Geralt crazy. I don’t think Philippa would mind, as long as she was involved.”

“Ugh. Perish that thought, then.”

They said nothing for a few minutes, just watching the boats on the pond.

“We should probably head back inside.”

“In a minute,” said Yennefer, leaning into Triss while she did the same. “Let’s just sit here a while.”


	5. Black Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of sexual assault. This is potentially triggering subject matter, so I’m putting this warning up at the beginning. There’s really no getting around it due to the content of the source material and its relevance to the main couple featured in this story. If that’s something you’d rather not read, I won’t hold it against you if you turn back here. I didn't put an archive warning on the story because the act itself isn't depicted, only referenced, and happened in the source material anyway.
> 
> Please keep in mind that the opinions contained within this chapter are those of the characters, and not necessarily my own. Rape should not be romanticized or excused, but by their nature most characters don’t conform perfectly to social justice ideals. People often have messy and problematic opinions about things. It doesn’t mean the author thinks they’re right. On a metatextual level this is of course all made up, but stories rely on willing suspension of disbelief, and I can’t just ignore something uncomfortable if doing so would break continuity. I also can’t pretend the characters are perfect people who always make the right decisions. They wouldn’t be characters anymore.
> 
> I’m probably getting overly defensive up front, but this is something I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into, and I don’t want it to be misconstrued. It’s all part of a larger story.

“Gaunter O’Dimm has been a major patron of the arts in recent years,” Anna Henrietta explained to Ciri and Mistle’s dumbfounded expressions. “And he’s given lectures at the local art schools. We particularly enjoyed the one about pottery.”

“Ah yes,” said Gaunter O’Dimm, grinning smugly. “The real conundrum is about what to do when a pot breaks.”

Ciri stared hard at him, unsure of how to react. In truth she had been expecting him to show up, but not like this. Perhaps disguised as a waiter or a guard, but she could never have imagined the raggedy merchant she met cleaning up this well. Still, best not to make a scene.

“How do you mean?”

He looked to her, a dark intelligence flashing in his eyes. “Most people simply throw the pot away. Others try to glue it back together. In Ofier they bind the pieces back together with gold, increasing its value. But none of those are true solutions.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“To get a new pot.”

Mistle wrinkled her brow. “I’m confused.”

“So am I,” admitted the Duchess. “Is that not the solution employed by everybody?”

“Not everybody. Some try desperately to reclaim what they see as their investment in the pot. Others can’t afford to get a new one, and must choose to repair it or do without. In either case, it’s never the same as it was before.”

“There’s another option,” said Ciri.

Mistle was still perplexed. “What?”

“You could fix the pot with magic.”

“Indeed you could,” said O’Dimm. “But how many people can do that, realistically? Most have no magical talent at all, and those who do are burdened by more important matters. It would be a waste of their power.”

“So that leaves one other option.”

“Do tell.”

“You make a wish.”

“Ah.” He raised an arm, with one finger extended. “Now you’ve hit upon the real conundrum. Yes, you could wish for a new pot. But just like magic, the problem is availability. If there are none around to grant your wish, then what can you do?”

“Wait for them to find you.”

Gaunter O’Dimm’s smile widened.

 “Okay, why are we on about pots?” asked Mistle. “This is going nowhere.”

“It’s a metaphor,” said Ciri, still glaring hard at him. “A bad one.”

Anna Henrietta looked between them, confused. “We are afraid this is the last introduction before we must return to our other duties as host. There will be dancing soon, or you may avail yourself of the many activities here or in the gardens. We will see you later.” She curtsied gracefully, and they returned the gesture. Then she left.

Once she was out of earshot, the two of them glared daggers at Gaunter O’Dimm.

“Keeping an eye on us?”

“Nothing of the sort,” he insisted. “I simply can’t resist these occasions.”

“Cut the shit,” said Mistle. “You want your payment and you’ll get it. But before that, for one night in my miserable fucking life I’ll be treated how I should have been all along.”

He kept smiling. “If that is your wish, then so be it. Get what you feel you deserve. That’s never been a problem for you, has it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Be honest with yourself. As rich as your family was, they were from a small village in a small, insignificant kingdom. Bandits or no bandits, you’d never have gotten the royal treatment. The only way to get that is to be royalty.”

Ciri scowled. “So what if I’m the one who made this possible? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do in this arrangement?”

“That’s true. But Mistle here has confused what she deserves with what she covets.”

“Enough,” Mistle snarled. “Stop talking in riddles and say what you mean.”

“Very well. The Rats never kept most of their spoils. You showered every village you passed through with coin, keeping only the various baubles and jewelry you took from the nobles you robbed. Because you wanted to be feared by those above you and loved by those below you. Because you wanted to pretend you had class.”

“I’ll show you class.”

He merely smirked.

“If you wanted it, you took it,” he continued. “No matter what it was. Especially your dear Falka.”

Ciri narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes remained locked on Mistle.

“How you must have burned when you saw Kayleigh try to claim the prize that was rightfully yours.” His smile had mutated into a sneer, and darkness flashed behind his eyes again. “But you chased him off, didn’t you? And rather than comfort that poor child who’d been through so much, you decided to take advantage.”

“Liar!”

“You told yourself you were doing her a favor, of course. That you were helping her feel better. But the only difference between you and Kayleigh is that you’re the one who got to have her.”

He turned to Ciri. “And how could you say no? You’d been through hell, wandering through that desert, losing your connection to the Power because you were too afraid of burning everything you had left. You didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

Ciri stared at him for a long time before shrugging. “What is this supposed to accomplish? You think any of this is a secret to me? That may have been how it started, but it grew into something more. I love her.”

“If you say so.”

She looked at Mistle, and the intent behind Gaunter O’Dimm’s words became clear. Tears had started to form in her eyes, and her bottom lip was trembling while her body shook with barely contained rage.

“Come on,” she said, taking her hand. “Let’s go dance.”

Gaunter O’Dimm kept smiling. “See you around.”

* * *

“How is Toussaint working out for you, Geralt?”

Geralt took a swig of his wine to prepare himself for a conversation with Philippa Eilhart. It wasn’t that he disliked her. She’d been his ally as many times as she’d been his enemy, and neither of them bothered keeping track anymore. Still, talking to her was best done with the help of a little alcohol.

“Can’t complain. There’s sun, the people are nice, and Yen likes it here. There are worse places to retire.”

“So it’s true? You’ve retired?”

He smirked. “Not completely.”

“Have you told Yennefer much about your previous stay here?”

“You mean have I told her about Fringilla? She already knew. Seems she had a religious experience in Skellige all those years ago and saw us together in a vision.”

“That can’t have been comforting given what happened to her after that.”

Geralt shrugged. “We worked through it years ago. Fringilla was a pretty capable spy, and I don’t have any hard feelings. Besides, it was her illusion magic that let me get the upper hand on Vilgefortz.”

“She still hasn’t gotten over that hoodwinking you gave her. Even I didn’t think you capable of that sort of deception.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“When did you figure it out?”

 “It didn’t come together until she suddenly got very interested in where Vilgefortz was hiding,” he admitted. “But the signs were all there. I don’t trust sorceresses as a rule anyway.”

“Not even Yennefer?”

“She’s an exception. But she wasn’t always.”

“I see.”

They stood there for a few minutes, observing the ball. Across the room, sitting at a table by one of the massive windows, he saw Sylvia Anna. Her dress was jet black, to match her hair, accented with dark blues. It was difficult to make out more detail at this distance.

Anna Henrietta was making the rounds still, impressing everyone with her inexhaustible energy. She was a radiant sun, brightening the evening of all she passed. Syanna, then, was the moon, biding her time until it was her turn to loom over everything. She had tried already to block out the sun and met with failure. But she could very well try again, and Geralt had staked his own wellbeing on keeping her from doing so tonight. For the moment, however, Syanna was just sitting there.

He brought the wine to his lips and started to drink.

“Ciri looks nice.”

Geralt choked as the wine travelled down to his lungs, and he coughed it up a moment later. Philippa casually passed him a handkerchief.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t be coy. Triss has been trying to hide her from me all night, but none of you are as clever as you think you are. Falka? Really? Did you imagine no one would make the connection?”

He stared hard at her and crossed his arms. “That’s why you showed up in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Perceptive. Oh, don’t start planning where to hide my body yet. Ciri’s of no interest to me. I simply had to see for myself.”

“You’ll understand if I find that hard to believe.”

“Of course I understand. I’d have the same suspicions if I were in your shoes. But think about it logically. How many wars has Nilfgaard waged against the Northern Realms?”

“Three.”

“Of those, only the third wasn’t entirely motivated by trying to get Ciri into Emhyr’s clutches. And each time, thousands of lives were lost, and tens of thousands more were destroyed. Famines raged, plagues spread, and mages burned. Do you honestly think I would try to start another one?”

“You have before.”

“Yes, and I learned the hard way that assassinating world leaders doesn’t solve the problem either.”

“Why would Ciri being alive start a war? Nilfgaard won, and right now we’re within the Empire’s borders.”

“That’s my point. The next war won’t be with the Northern Realms. That’s over and done with. But there are still problems at home. Emhyr dealt a crushing blow to the most brazen of those who sought to depose him, but he still has enemies within his court. If those enemies were to learn that Ciri is alive, a civil war could be imminent.”

“I don’t buy it,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “Seems to me Emhyr himself has always been the bigger threat to Ciri. She’s chosen her own path. He’s got no right to impose that sort of destiny on her.”

“And you do? You who invoked the Law of Surprise, something deliberately intended to influence destiny? You who raised her in your own mold, to become a witcher, squandering her limitless potential on something as banal as hunting monsters for coin? She could be doing so much more.”

“Ciri made that choice herself.”

Philippa stared hard at him, which came across even through the fabric covering her eye sockets. “I wonder if you actually believe that. You think yourself above the manipulation of which you accuse anyone who tries to steer Ciri toward greater things. But you’re no different. You’ve always had your own plans for how her life ought to turn out. You just won’t admit it.”

“Weren’t you just saying you don’t care about her anymore?”

“Indeed I did. My personal feelings aside, revealing that she still lives wouldn’t serve the Emperor’s best interests, which is what I’ve been tasked to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Emhyr has finally started to move past his obsession with bringing his daughter home. The wars were only part of it; he neglected a number of domestic issues, which he can now devote his full attention to. Ciri being dead actually serves the Empire better than her being alive. Now her father can focus on other things.”

“Like whatever you have planned for him.”

Philippa shrugged. “As long as it means I promise to leave Ciri out of it, do my plans really matter to you?”

“I guess not. Still not sure I believe you, though.”

“Believe what you will. For now, enjoy the party.”

* * *

Guillaume de Launfal passed stealthily through the palace gardens, having crossed the lake to avoid the various guards who were insistent on keeping him out. It was a simple misunderstanding. As an honorable knight errant, he had a right to be here. They would all understand that soon.

He had it all planned out. He would find a guest wandering the gardens and convince them that he was looking for the most beautiful blonde maiden in all the land, the Lady Vivienne de Tabris. All he need do was slip them a few crowns, along with a letter from an anonymous admirer inviting her out here to meet. She would enjoy that touch. It was straight out of a fairy tale.

The problem was finding someone who wouldn’t recognize him on sight. Concealed beneath a dark cloak, he did not exactly cut a trustworthy figure, so he would have to rely on greed when choosing an intermediary. Fortunately there were few in attendance tonight who would turn down the chance to make some easy coin.

He spotted his mark, a bald man wearing an extravagant blue and yellow doublet, who turned around and smiled faintly, gazing directly into his eyes. Guillaume stopped walking for a moment, caught off guard, but ultimately pressed ahead.

“Greetings, good sir. I’m dreadfully sorry to bother you, but I hoped you might—“

“Do you really believe a letter will win her over?”

Guillaume stared, speechless. The man stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

“How many times have you tried now, Guillaume de Launfal?” the mysterious man continued. “Coming up with plan after plan, always in hopes that this time, she’ll forget about the past and become yours? Only to be spurned each time, the disappointment in your heart growing until you’re afraid that one day it will burst. Have you even tried keeping track?”

Those eyes seemed to bore into his soul, and Guillaume felt very small. He puffed out his chest, for all the good it would do. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I recommend you watch your tone, lest I demand satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction I can provide,” said the man as he bowed elegantly. “My name is Gaunter O’Dimm. Once a humble merchant of mirrors. At your service.”

“I know not by what dark magic you claim to know me, Gaunter O’Dimm, but if you cannot help me then I must be on my way.”

“Oh, but I can help you. More than anyone else in this garden. You want a castle? I can provide that. A chest overflowing with gold? Easily acquired. To have the respect of your peers back? Done. I can make you as powerful as a king, wise as a hierophant, rich as a sultan, and sprightly as a newborn babe. Anything you desire can be yours, provided you agree to my price.”

He was surely lying. But something in the man’s eyes, if he was a man, suggested he could do all that he said and more.

“There is only one thing I desire, above all else,” said Guillaume. “I wish to be with the Lady Vivienne de Tabris, until the end of her days. To devote myself wholly to her, to be at her beck and call. For I know in my heart of hearts that she is the love of my life, my destiny. The one to whom I wish to be bonded forever.”

“Are you certain? You should be careful what you wish for.”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything! To her, I would be loyal as a dog!”

“So be it, then,” said Gaunter O’Dimm, his smile concealing a secret. He raised a wooden spoon, though Guillaume could not see from where he had produced it. “Now close your eyes.”

He did, and heard the spoon snap in half.

And his wish was granted.

* * *

By the time they reached the middle of the dance floor, Mistle’s eyes had started to dry, and the red in her face subsided. Ciri entwined their hands together and guided the other woman through the steps. Mistle seemed to know this dance, and before long they were moving and twirling with everyone else.

“Are you doing okay?”

They sashayed side to side then faced off, bringing their hands together and apart before interlocking them and circling each other. Then they twirled around and did the same thing in reverse.

Mistle nodded, sniffling a bit. “I am. Thanks for standing up for me.”

“Don’t let him get to you. His goal is to poison our relationship. That’s what he does with everything you wish for.”

Ciri took the other woman’s hand and raised it above her head, and Mistle twirled around twice before they brought their hands down. She pulled Mistle towards her and dipped her, then returned her to her feet.

“They’re staring at us.”

“Of course they are. We’re the guests of honor.”

“You don’t mind?”

“I don’t. Not when I’m with you. Let them stare.”

The song changed, and this time Mistle took the lead, wrapping her arm around Ciri’s waist as they swayed to a slower melody.

“Do you remember that town we stopped in once?” she asked, relishing the other woman’s touch. “When you got me to stand up on that table? That was the first time we danced together.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t quite as fancy as all this.”

“That’s hardly important. It still meant the world to me.”

Mistle turned her face away and frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“He wasn’t wrong, you know,” she confessed. “I did take advantage of you back then. You were too drained to fight back and I knew that. I knew it and I did it anyway, because I wanted you so badly.”

“I know. I knew it back then too, and I didn’t care. Better you than Kayleigh.”

“I’m not what you would call an excellent person,” said Mistle. “But even I know that’s a messed up way of looking at things.”

“What exactly were my other options? Everything I knew had been ripped away from me, and you were the first people I’d come across who didn’t want to kill me or sell me. I didn’t have the strength to resist you, so I… surrendered. I told myself that, all things considered, it wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

“But you know better now. So why don’t you hate me for it?”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

She nodded.

“I’m not going to pretend that what you did wasn’t wrong,” said Ciri, still grasping her firmly. “I told you back then that I went along with it because I didn’t want to be alone. That for a long time it was just for fun. But at some point that changed. I fell in love.”

“Did you really? Or are you just saying it to make me feel better?”

“I’m saying that I forgive you,” she replied. “And that I love you. And that I don’t care if everybody’s looking at us right now, because this is your fairy tale. Now tell me what you want.”

“You,” Mistle whispered, her breath warming her cheek. “I want you.”

In front of everybody, smiling while she did so, Ciri leaned in and kissed Mistle on the lips.

* * *

“Oh my!” said Rosa var Attre, grinning wickedly. “That’s sure to ignite a scandal.”

“Whatever do you mean, sister?” asked Edna, wearing the same smile on her face. “I will admit, I thought that sort of perversion only happened in the North.”

“That’s one thing I miss about Novigrad. At least there they burned deviants at the stake.”

They laughed.

“Enjoying yourselves, ladies?”

The sisters var Attre stopped laughing at once, and stared at the new arrival. “And who might you be?”

“Apologies, I should have introduced myself. My name is Philippa Eilhart.”

They curtsied. “A pleasure. I’m Rosa var Attre, and this is my sister Edna.”

“I’m well aware. Have you met Geralt of Rivia?”

“Have I ever.” Rosa smiled lustfully as she looked the White Wolf up and down. “He gave me fencing lessons in Novigrad. We had a duel on a bridge, straight out of an adventure novel.”

“That’s right,” said Geralt, crossing his arms. “And then you ran off without an escort and almost got shown a very bad time by a couple of thugs.”

“They got theirs,” she insisted. “After Nilfgaard conquered the city I had their hands chopped off just as I promised.”

“Charming,” said Philippa. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Is that really what you think of them?”

“It’s not natural,” said Edna. “They should be married off to some men who will make real women out of them.”

“Is that you talking, or your fancy education?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Are you aware of whom I arrived with?”

“You mean that redheaded slut with her tits hanging out?” asked Rosa, her words slurring a bit. The wine was loosening her tongue a great deal, but she paid no attention to it as she continued. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. All sorceresses go against nature anyway. They should have burned more of you.”

Rage flashed in Geralt’s eyes, but he stayed where he was. “I’m curious how that thought process extends to witchers. We go against nature too.”

“Yes, but you serve a useful purpose. You slay monsters. Sorceresses only cause more problems.”

Philippa’s expression turned ice cold.

“You spoiled little tarts don’t even realize to whom you speak,” she said. “I need only whisper a word to the Emperor to have your father assigned as ambassador to Tretogor. And once you’re there, diplomatic immunity or not, nothing will protect you from the people I still maintain contact with.”

She laughed. “I’d like to see you try and follow through on that.”

“It’s not an idle threat,” warned Geralt. “She’s the Emperor’s new court sorceress. You two have been so busy touring the Empire you probably hadn’t even heard.”

Rosa’s blood froze. So did Edna’s.

“We’re sorry!” they both exclaimed, bowing deeply.

“Oh, don’t stand on ceremony. Get up, you worms.”

They obeyed, staring at her with newfound terror. “Please don’t tell our Papa.”

“I’m still undecided. Get out of my sight.”

Rosa and Edna var Attre fled as politely as possible, tails between their legs. When they left, Geralt cracked a smile.

“That feel good?”

“You have no idea.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For standing up for Ciri.”

“You’re welcome, though in truth I was mostly standing up for myself. I can abide that sort of ignorance from the other sorceresses, but I draw the line at spoiled brats.” She put a finger to her chin. “I probably will have a conversation with their father. Get him to teach them some manners.”

“Think it’ll work?”

Philippa shrugged. “Probably not. But I can still have them killed.”

“Maybe just have a drink instead.”

“Oh, alright.”

* * *

Triss and Yennefer entered the ballroom just in time to see the kiss. Triss widened her eyes in surprise, while Yennefer merely clenched her jaw.

“Did you know about this?”

“I did. I’d hoped they could refrain from making a scene, since Ciri is supposed to be here incognito, but young love does tend to run wild.”

They moved further in, towards where they could see Geralt and Philippa moving near one of the tables containing a multitude of wines. “I still don’t even know who that other girl is.”

“Mistle of Thurn. Or so she claims. Do you remember when Ciri disappeared through the Tor Lara portal on Thanedd?”

Triss nodded.

“After a series of unfortunate circumstances, Ciri fell in with a gang of bandits called the Rats. Mistle was one of them. That was when Ciri assumed the alias Falka. They marauded for a time before the entire gang, apart from Ciri, was slaughtered by Leo Bonhart.”

“All of them? But then how…?”

“Is Mistle alive? All I know is it’s not necromancy.”

“Then what is it?”

“The real question isn’t what,” said a voice behind them, “but who.”

They turned around to see a bald man in an elegant yellow and blue doublet, smiling like he knew precisely how the world would end. On the other end of the leash he held was a small bulldog, which looked around the room excitedly while panting.

“A pleasure to meet you both. My name is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

Yennefer frowned. “Speak of the devil.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the individual whom Ciri claims brought Mistle back to life,” the sorceress explained. “I’m not really sure what he is, but I know he’s no mage. There’s no aura about him.”

“I don’t bother with mere spells,” said Gaunter O’Dimm. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance. Did you know, Yennefer, that I was the one who set Geralt on your trail in White Orchard? You’d likely not be together now if it wasn’t for me.”

“My heartfelt thanks,” she replied in perfect deadpan. “What is it you want?”

“Must I want something in order to talk with you?”

“I have a hard time believing you simply want to make friends.”

The smile on his face persisted. “You’ve found me out. I confess to being curious about all sorts of human behavior. There’s so much I still don’t understand.”

“Such as?”

“Why feelings of motherhood still form in someone who is unable to have children of her own. One can conclude from this that those feelings do not derive from the womb, but somewhere else. And yet it is not entirely of the mind. They don’t call it maternal instinct for nothing.”

Yennefer’s eyes lit up with fury, but her voice did not change. “What are you driving at?”

“Nothing. As I said, I’m simply curious.”

“I don’t really have an answer for you, I’m afraid.”

“I thought not. Still, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” said Triss. “What do you want with Ciri? And how did you bring her friend back to life?”

“It was within my power to do so. It’s not like you’re a stranger to coming back to life, are you, Fourteenth of the Hill? Or you, Yennefer. Or Geralt, for that matter. All of your destinies tied to Ciri. All of you with parts still to play.”

Neither of them said anything, but stood there glaring at him.

“As for Ciri, she is in my debt. I saved her life and now she must repay me.”

“Like hell!”

“Forgive her,” said Yennefer. “The intricacies of the situation haven’t been explained to her yet.”

“I leave that to you,” he replied, melting back into the crowd. “Enjoy the party.”

“What’s he talking about, Yennefer? What does he mean Ciri has to repay him? And how does he know about Sodden Hill?”

“I’ll explain later, Triss. It’s not a story one tells in mixed company.”

Triss sighed, deeply and with great frustration. “I need a drink. Or ten.”

“You know what? So do I. Let’s go.”

* * *

By now, Vivienne de Tabris had lost count of how many times she’d laughed tonight. She knew knights errant to be of boisterous character, but her time spent in their presence had been limited due to her curse. Now, as she drank wine and ate fresh hors d’oeuvres with Baron Palmerin de Launfal, she was eager to make up for lost time, and he proved exceptionally entertaining.

He was nothing like his nephew. Guillaume was pushy, impatient, and thought largely of himself. His grand romantic gestures invariably revealed themselves to be the work of his ego, and showed how little he actually cared for Vivienne and her happiness. He didn’t love her, not really. He loved the idea of her that he had built up in his fantasies, and grew upset when she failed to conform to that ideal.

Palmerin, by contrast, was a realist. He spoke as tradition demanded when attending to official knightly business, but here, in the quiet little corner table where they had retreated from the main party, they were able to have a more down to earth conversation. And she found the things he said to be fascinating.

“And as we soon discovered, the leader of the _hanse_ had put his breastplate on backwards!” he said, wrapping up his story. “Our attack came while he was still asleep, and the poor man had tried to put it on himself. Couldn’t even swing his sword properly, it was embarrassing to watch. We disarmed him easily and he surrendered.”

“Surely you didn’t ambush the entire _hanse_ in their sleep,” she replied. “That would be a stain on one’s honor.”

“Heavens, no! The rest of his men were awake and ready to fight, but ‘Potbelly’ Gerard was a notoriously lazy man. He was the son of the previous leader of the _hanse_ and inherited control after his father died. The fight was brief.”

Vivienne smiled coquettishly and sipped her wine. “You’ve certainly lived a life of adventure, Sir Palmerin.”

“That I have. Sadly not all my stories end so happily, or with so little bloodshed.”

“As one who has witnessed so many tournaments, the sight of blood is nothing new to me,” she insisted. “But I thank you for choosing your stories wisely.”

“Indeed. For unlike a tournament fight, a real battle doesn’t always end with one’s opponent yielding.”

“Nor is blood the only fluid one sees in such a circumstance.”

They both looked up to see a bald man in a yellow and blue doublet approaching, leading a small bulldog by a leash. The dog began panting excitedly upon seeing Vivienne.

“Apologies for my vulgarity,” the man said to their silent faces. “My name is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“You have the honor of meeting the Lady Vivienne de Tabris. I am Baron Palmerin de Launfal. What can we do for you, Master O’Dimm?”

“It’s really a question of what I can do for you,” he replied. “I found this dog wandering the garden. Asking around, it doesn’t appear to belong to anybody in the palace.” He looked at Vivienne. “And he seems to like you.”

Vivienne glanced between the dog and O’Dimm. “You spoke true earlier. Blood is far from the only substance contained within us. The tourney grounds are no stranger to gore either.”

“It’s fascinating, how violence can be either heroic or horrific, depending on the circumstances and the one committing it,” he observed. “But that dichotomy only appears as such to a bystander. It’s different when you’re in the thick of it, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” said Palmerin. “Though in a tournament, the difference is that the violence ends on command.”

“Yes, it does ultimately come down to context,” he replied. “But I digress. Since no one here wants to claim the dog, I wonder if I could leave him in the Lady’s care. As I said, he seems fond of her.”

The knight errant looked to Vivienne, who stared at the dog for a minute before nodding.

“Very well. I prefer birds, but dogs can be loyal companions.”

“Exceptionally so,” said O’Dimm. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. It was lovely meeting you both.”

“The same,” said Palmerin. Vivienne inclined her head, then received the dog, who was staring at her and wagging its tail.

“That was strange,” she said, still examining the dog. “I must confess I’m not certain what to name him.”

“Worry not,” said Palmerin, resting his elbow on the table and leaning forward to scratch the dog behind the ears. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

* * *

The four of them reconvened around the same table, trading partners once more so that they were back to how they started.

“Well?” asked Philippa. “Did you reconcile? You were gone an awfully long time.”

“Yes, we made love beneath the stars,” Yennefer replied. “You should have seen it.”

Geralt only smirked. He was well accustomed to her sense of humor after all these years. Philippa did not react at all.

“At any rate, it’s good you’re back. Now we can discuss real matters.”

“Such as?”

“Yen,” said Geralt. “She knows.”

“Damn. Please tell me it wasn’t something as juvenile as reading your mind.”

“As if I’d want to poke around in there,” said Philippa. “No, you chose her alias poorly.”

“Technically, she chose it.”

“It’s still your error for not persuading her otherwise. I thought you were smarter than this, Yennefer.”

“And I thought the Emperor had you on too tight of a leash to go gallivanting to balls. I couldn’t have known you’d show.”

“You should have planned for it. As it stands, you got lucky, since she’s no longer of any interest to me. I was explaining to Geralt earlier how Ciri being presumed dead is actually a good thing for the Empire.”

Yennefer crossed her arms. “Do tell.”

“I’ll let him bore you with the details later. I was hoping to find out why you’re throwing a ball for her in the first place.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

“I’m plenty used to it when it comes to you. Still, I’d have had worse luck appealing to Geralt’s sense of nostalgia. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’ll discover it soon enough anyway.”

“Thought Ciri didn’t interest you,” said Geralt.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be thorough.”

“Lay off, Phil,” said Triss, exasperated. “I know we’re here on business but let’s at least try to enjoy ourselves while we’re at it.”

“If you insist.”

“We’ll be going now,” said Yennefer. “Come, Geralt.”

The Witcher simply shrugged as he was led away by the hand.

“What did you get from her?” Philippa asked as soon as they were alone again.

“None of your damn business,” the redheaded sorceress replied scathingly, then softened. “Sorry. It was personal. Nothing we talked about should be of any interest to the Lodge.”

“And here I’d hoped you had at least picked up the basics of spycraft by now. If I say something is of no interest to me, that means it’s of the utmost interest. Yennefer knows that, which is why she guided your conversation towards a subject that had nothing to do with Ciri.”

Triss frowned. “Not entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. Like I said, none of it’s important.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“Yennefer’s my friend, Phil. I don’t want to betray her confidence.”

“This isn’t about your friendship. It’s about your loyalty to the Lodge, which is very close to being in question. Now tell me everything.”

Triss sighed, and uttered a silent apology that Yennefer would never hear.

And she obeyed.

* * *

They danced for a few more songs before retreating back to the sidelines. Mistle was now in far better spirits, and giddily led her along. They stopped by a table serving crab cakes and deviled eggs, then moved on to fresh shrimp. They also stuffed themselves with fondue, and sampled the various wines. The whole time they made conversation with the other guests, but that mostly passed by in a blur. All she really focused on was Mistle’s touch, her scent, and her presence. Nothing else mattered.

“I,” said Mistle after the third drink, “am gonna go sit down until the room stops tilting sideways.”

“You’re drunk,” she said, her words slurring a bit. “But I love you. I need some air. I’ll join you in a bit.”

They parted, and Mistle wandered off to one of the tables at the edge of the ballroom. Ciri moved towards one of the giant glass doors, which led out to a balcony overlooking the palace gardens. Once there, she leaned over the railing, taking in the view.

Toussaint was beautiful at night. While the circumstances that led them here may have been the opposite of ideal, Mistle’s first wish was a good one. This place was truly magical, a fairy tale come to life. At least it felt that way after a few glasses of wine. But even sober, this felt like a place where she could stay for a while. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Maybe that was why Geralt remained here.

“Lovely view, isn’t it?”

Ciri groaned and turned to glare at Gaunter O’Dimm. “What do you want?”

He looked at her with that infuriating smile. “It’s always fascinated me how much animosity you humans display towards me once you discover my true nature. Am I really so horrible?”

She turned to face him with some effort, leaning with one arm against the railing. “Geralt says you’re pure Evil.”

“An interesting thing to say, given that he’s one of the few humans to not care about me one way or another. When I took Olgierd von Everec’s soul right in front of him, he didn’t even blink. And when I offered him an additional reward, he said he didn’t want a thing from me. Odd, don’t you think?”

“He’s always considered himself neutral.”

“Yes, that famous witcher’s neutrality. Except it never seems to apply where you’re concerned, as a certain Scoia’tael commando could attest if they were still alive.”

“Perhaps he just knows how to pick his battles.”

“A good trait to have. I wonder if he managed to pass it on to you.”

“We’ll find out.”

He looked out over the gardens, looking as though he saw something she didn’t. “An interesting thing about Evil: most people despise it because they know it lies within themselves, only they’d rather not admit it. Do you know why they call me Master Mirror?”

“I’d wager you’re about to tell me.”

“People invariably blame me when their wishes go awry,” he said. “They claim that I tricked them, that it wasn’t really what they wanted. But I reveal the desires they hid from themselves, those dark thoughts they shut away because they were afraid to face them. They call me evil, and don’t acknowledge that I only appear so because I reflect that which is inside them.”

“But you do still pervert the wish,” said Ciri. “You’re no different from a Djinn in that regard.”

“Djinns twist the wording of the wish out of mere spite,” he replied. “I give people _exactly_ what they wish for.”

“Dress it up however you like. You just enjoy causing misery.”

“There are plenty in this world who cause misery in far simpler ways,” O’Dimm countered. “A group of bandits slaughtering a village, sparing only the women so they can rape them later. A priest of the Eternal Fire, burning people at the stake not because he hates them, but because he enjoys watching them scream as the flames lick higher. A man who laughs while he beats his wife, who feels powerless in every other aspect of his life and takes it out on her so he can feel in control.”

He turned to meet her gaze. “You call me evil, you claim that I enjoy suffering, but can you say with confidence that I’ve ever done any of those things?”

“Those aren’t the only evil things in the world.”

“Very true. But there are a few that rate higher than others. Murder, for example. Rape, too. I’ve never committed either. Can you say the same?”

“Of course I can!” she shouted, then quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard her. For the moment, they were alone on the balcony. “Of course I can,” she repeated more quietly. “I’ve only ever killed people who were trying to kill me, and I’ve certainly never raped anybody!”

“But you did call for it,” he replied. “When you learned there was a bounty on your head for robbing the Baron of Casedai’s daughter, you declared to everybody present that she ‘ought to have been ravaged.’”

“Shut up.”

“As for murder, you cut a man down in the street just for claiming you hadn’t met a man who could cure you of your attraction to your beloved, then whined about dropping your candy floss. You didn’t even pay the blood money.”

“I said shut up!”

“Oh, but that wasn’t Ciri, was it?” Darkness flashed behind his eyes once more, and his smile twisted into something menacing. “That was Falka. Ciri would never do those things, would she?”

Red gathered at the edges of her vision, and her thoughts became less coherent as the fury took its hold. Combined with the alcohol that still swam around inside her head, it was getting difficult to even think in words.

“I’m warning you…”

“Spare me your warnings. The truth is this: Falka was never real. It was always Ciri. You just told yourself it was someone else so you could sleep at night. Then you put it behind you, as if the things you did could ever be erased.”

The garden faded from view as darkness enveloped their surroundings, and his mocking face was the only thing she could see.

“You’ve been playing the victim for so long you actually believe it. You think of yourself as some chosen one, some savior of the downtrodden, but you’re just a killer, and that’s all you’ll ever be. You’re the avenger promised by the real Falka as she laughed at the flames that burned her. Death follows you wherever you go, because you _are_ death! You think me evil? Look in the mirror!”

“Raaaagh!” Ciri punched at his face in a blind, drunken fury, but her fist passed right through, and Gaunter O’Dimm disappeared.

She stood there, trembling with unthinking rage. She grabbed a potted plant that rested on the railing and hurled it over the balcony. After a few minutes of panting heavily, she wiped the tears from her eyes and headed back inside, her thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of hellfire.


	6. A Bird in the Hand

After sitting down failed to clear her head, Mistle decided to wander the ballroom. Everything was less wobbly now, and she snacked on a few more hors d’oeuvres to soak up the wine. She had always been a lightweight when it came to drinking, but at least she was getting drunk on the expensive stuff instead of back-alley moonshine.

This whole night was infinitely more extravagant than the brief glimpses of the high life that she’d experienced before the bandits razed her village to the ground. Before they slaughtered the men and only kept her and the other women alive as playthings that they ultimately discarded in a ditch. Before she had been doomed to spend the rest of her life with the lowest dregs of society, surviving only because she’d managed to prove herself even more dangerous than all of them. Before she died with her guts hanging out, staring into her lover’s horror-stricken eyes as she expired.

Gaunter O’Dimm was right: this was all far more than she deserved.

She didn’t regret the wish of course. For one night at least, she would get to see how the other half lived. Her own little Cinderella story. But unlike the fairy tale, she wouldn’t run out of here at midnight. She would stay, make the place her own for the night, and make love to Falka until the morning.

Wait. Not Falka. Ciri. She kept forgetting.

Shaking her head, she walked forward to the wine table again, figuring she was due for another. Maybe if she got drunk enough she could fool herself into thinking she really belonged here.

“So, this is the guest of honor. How do you do?”

She glanced over to see a red haired woman in an ornate dress, with a red and gold mantle encircling her shoulders and extending all the way down to her waist, where it met a purple skirt. Her arms were visible through sheer sleeves, and her nails were painted deep black. Around her neck she wore three layers of pearls, underneath which lay a trio of medallions with inset amethyst. The belt around her waist had multiple gold ovals set into it, and she wore a headband of black lace. She was the very picture of wealth, and there was something unsettling in her gaze.

“I do just fine,” she answered. “Who are you?”

The woman smirked. “I see you’re not schooled in manners. Not what I expected from a debutante.”

“You’re the one who hasn’t introduced herself.”

“Yes, we did skip over that. My name is Orianna.”

“Mistle,” she replied, then hastily added, “of Thurn.”

“I’m afraid I am not familiar with this Thurn.”

“It’s in Maecht. Or was, anyway.”

Orianna’s eyes narrowed in the same manner as a cat examining its prey. “I see. From what I’ve heard, you and the Countess Falka of Ebbing recently inherited Tesham Mutna… how, exactly?”

“You’d have to ask the Duchess,” she said, realizing suddenly that she’d never come up with an answer to that question. “I’m afraid it’s all terribly complicated for someone unschooled in manners.”

The older woman smirked. “I ask because that land used to belong to a dear friend of mine. Well, he was my friend before the unfortunate incident that took place there.”

She backed away a little, trying to put the table between them. “What unfortunate incident?”

“You’d have to ask the Duchess.”

Her stare was downright unnerving now. Looking into Orianna’s eyes was like watching a whirlpool. It was mesmerizing, and she couldn’t look away.

“Will you join me on the balcony?” asked Orianna, whose voice was now all encompassing, drowning out the noise of the ball. “I’m sure we’ll find much to talk about.”

“Of course,” she heard herself say. She felt not entirely present, as though watching her actions from afar. “Anything for you.”

Her feet moved forward without her input, and she watched herself following further and further along. They were almost at a set of doors when another woman, her dress black as coal with hair to match, blocked their path. She held her left arm behind her back and stared impassively at the two of them.

“I think that’s far enough.”

“ _You_ ,” Orianna hissed.

“Yes, me. Normally I wouldn’t give a toss what you do with young maidens you lure away, but if something happens to that girl my sister is liable to blame me. I’m trying to stay on her good side.”

“You’re the reason Dettlaff is dead,” said the older woman. “You used him like a tool then abandoned him to his fate.”

“I did. It’s his own fault he couldn’t beat a witcher. Guess none of you are what you’re cracked up to be.”

“I ought to decorate this entire room with your entrails.”

The mysterious woman laughed. “I’d be amazed if you managed that in a room this large. Go ahead, bloodsucker. Kill me right here. Show everybody what you really are.”

Orianna hesitated.

“That’s what I thought. You still care too much about your damn reputation in the art community to take what could be your one chance to strike at me.”

“I could kill you any time I wish,” she insisted. “You think any of the defenses of this place could stop me? I could appear as a mist in your room at night and strangle you while you sleep.”

“But you won’t. Because my sister would know it was you. And she knows a witcher who’s already killed one of you. I hear he’s at this very ball.”

Orianna snarled, but stayed where she was. The woman in black stood her ground, entirely unbothered.

“This isn’t over.”

“I’m quaking in my heels,” the woman said sardonically. “Now release your hold on the girl and get back to bragging about your precious Mandragora.”

“Fine.”

As soon as Orianna snapped her fingers, Mistle’s head instantly cleared and she had control of her own limbs again. She looked up at the mysterious woman as the redhead walked away, out of sight.

“Not rightly sure what just happened, but thanks,” she said. “What do I call you?”

“Sylvia Anna,” she replied, extending her hand, which Mistle shook. “But you can call me Syanna for short.”

“Mistle.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Do you want to sit down?”

She nodded her head, and Syanna led her over to a table where they both sat.

“What happened?”

“Orianna had you under her thrall.” At Mistle’s puzzled expression, she clarified: “She hypnotized you.”

“How?”

“It’s something she can do.”

“What is she?”

“A higher vampire. They’re everywhere in Toussaint.”

Mistle let that sink in. Ciri’s friend Geralt had mentioned hunting a higher vampire when he first came here. “What’s she got against you?”

“A long story,” she replied, waving a waiter over. “But one I’d be willing to tell over a drink.”

She smiled and leaned in closer. “I’d love to hear it.”

* * *

Yennefer retrieved a crab cake from the hors d’oeuvres table and pushed the entire thing into her mouth, having lost her patience for etiquette somewhere around her third glass of wine. Not that occasions in Toussaint required much in the way of manners when it came to food, unlike the banquets held by sorceresses. Joy and celebration were the way of life around here, and next to Geralt’s wolfish eating habits, she appeared downright dainty.

“Did you learn anything interesting from Philippa?” she asked Geralt, who was currently stuffing his face on fruit pastries he’d nabbed from a few tables over. “Apart from Ciri being more useful dead than alive, I mean.”

He at least had the courtesy to swallow before replying, which was progress. “You really believe that? After all the trouble she’s gone to trying to get Ciri to join the Lodge, I somehow doubt she just lost interest.”

“Of course I do, since this is obviously my first time playing political mind games with Philippa Eilhart.” She stared hard at him, and he smirked in understanding. “Please, Geralt.”

“I’m just saying, it won’t be easy getting out of this one.”

“Actually it will. You’re forgetting that while Philippa now serves Emhyr, the two of them have always had competing agendas regarding Ciri. He wants her to succeed him, while Philippa wants to use her to achieve the Lodge’s goals. We can be almost certain she won’t inform him.”

“Aren’t you forgetting that part of the Lodge’s plan is to place her on a throne? Got a big, tempting one right there in Nilfgaard. Told me as much herself in Skellige, along with her plan to throw you in the dungeon so you wouldn’t get in her way.”

“Charming. Still, priorities have changed. Emhyr’s plan to abdicate and have Ciri succeed him right away was inspired by the Trade Corporation and some of his nobles trying to depose him because they felt the war distracted him too much from domestic issues. Thanks to Radovid’s assassination, in which I remind you that both you and Philippa took part, he won the war, came back home victorious, and executed the opposition. I doubt he’s as willing to give up the throne now.”

“That won’t stop Philippa. What with her history of assassinating world leaders and all.”

“Her history of assassinating leaders who let their overconfidence make them vulnerable,” said Yennefer. “Even if that is her plan, she’d still need Ciri on her side beforehand. And it definitely means she wouldn’t want Emhyr finding out until her dagger was in his back.”

“That doesn’t mean Ciri’s out of danger.”

“She can take care of herself. As powerful as Philippa is, Ciri’s stronger than any of us. Believe me, if she could achieve her goal by any means other than asking Ciri nicely, she would have availed herself of it by now.”

“I guess you’re right.”

The corners of her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “When am I not?”

“But to answer your question, that’s all I was able to get from her.”

“It’s just as well, Triss didn’t have anything useful to say either.”

“Then why were you gone so long?”

“I never said it wasn’t interesting. Just not useful in this context.”

“I see.”

She smiled, more gently this time, and playfully bounced her hand off his chest. “You just want to know if we talked about you.”

“Not opening that can of worms,” he said with his hands raised. “I’m just glad you two seem to have patched things.”

“I’m glad too. Triss is one of my oldest friends, and I’m glad things have finally settled down enough to reconnect with her. We should have her over for brunch tomorrow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And Philippa?”

“May come if she must. I doubt she’ll want to, though.”

“Here’s hoping.”

* * *

Baroness Maria Louisa La Valette stood pretty as a picture while her companion for the evening chatted up yet another courtier. It took everything in her power not to tap her feet and roll her eyes at the vapidity of it all. But it was important to his career, so she endured.

After being tortured in her own dungeon and nearly losing her son, she had no love left for the North, and was overjoyed when the Great Sun finally rose over Novigrad. Morvran Voorhis had been an enchanting companion in the time leading up to Nilfgaard’s victory, and she continued to find herself drawn to him. He was charming, witty, and exceptionally level-headed. Very little could rile him, a trait she did not share, but admired.

She understood the obligations that came with his position. Still, her patience for political small talk had its limits, which were being tested.

Finally the conversation ended and she had him back for the time being.

“Can we leave soon, Morvran? I’m dying to get as much use out of the villa we rented as possible before the morning.”

Morvran Voorhis smiled coolly. “We’ll have plenty of time for pleasure later, my darling. But functions such as this are where I make connections that could prove important for both our futures.”

“I know, but I get so terribly jealous. I want you all to myself.”

“Were it up to me, I would shower you with attention day and night,” he said. “Unfortunately, my work is not the sort that I can leave at an office. You should get to know these people too. They could prove invaluable one day.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course he is,” said a voice behind them. She turned around and saw a woman with a blindfold covering her eyes, with an owl feather embedded in her hair. “May I borrow him for a minute?”

The Baroness glared daggers at the woman, who did not react. “I suppose.”

“Splendid.”

“I assume no introductions are necessary?” asked Morvran.

“Everyone knows Philippa Eilhart,” she said with considerable venom.

“Give us a moment, will you, darling?”

She said nothing, but nodded and moved away, remaining within earshot.

“What can I do for His Imperial Majesty’s court sorceress?”

“You can drop the formalities for one thing.”

“Very well. How may I help you, Philippa?”

“How familiar are you with the work of Stefan Skellen?”

“Very.”

“Good. Do you recall what Joanna Selbourne related during her trial?”

“You mean the psionic known as ‘Kenna?’ If I may be frank, I’m curious to know the reason for your interest.”

“I’m getting to that. Specifically I’m referring to a bounty hunter Skellen hired, one Leo Bonhart. He was supposed to eliminate a gang known as the Rats.”

“From what I’ve heard, he did so with much enthusiasm.”

“I’ve heard the same stories. Whatever else you can say about the man, he clearly loved his work.”

“Please get to the point, Miss Eilhart.”

“It seems there’s still a Rat infestation somewhere in Ebbing. Evidently he either failed, or another group has taken up their name.”

“How is this relevant?”

“I’ll tell you the specifics later, when we can arrange a more private meeting. For now I need to know one thing. If I were to request a special forces troop from within the Alba Division, could you mobilize them without alerting the Emperor?”

“Why such secrecy?”

“I can’t tell you why, not here. Is it possible?”

“It is. But a great deal will depend on your explanation, which I look forward to hearing in detail later.”

“And hear it you shall. In the meantime, tell your little girlfriend it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

The Baroness gasped sharply and stood up straight, glancing furtively out of the corner of her eye at the two of them, who were now staring right at her. She walked back over to them.

“I’ve said my piece,” said Philippa. “I’ll see you tomorrow, General Voorhis.”

“I look forward to it.”

They were alone again, and they stood in silence for about a minute.

“I’m sorry, Morvran,” she said finally. “To be honest, I don’t understand what any of that was about.”

He looked at her dispassionately. “Good. Keep it that way.”

She looked away, her slight frown the only thing betraying that she had lied.

* * *

“So let me get this straight: you were a bandit?”

Syanna nodded. “What else can you do when you’ve lost everything and you’re mad at the whole world?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Mistle. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on the secret.”

“I’m a bandit too.”

“Really? What’s the name of your gang?”

“The Rats.”

Sylvia Anna raised an eyebrow. “The Rats? From Ebbing? I heard you all died.”

She nodded. “Most of us did. But more have joined since then.”

“I see.”

“What’s it like being with a vampire?”

“Honestly? Exhausting. Dettlaff loved me with his entire being, and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to return it to the same extent. Eventually I had to leave.”

“That sucks.”

“No pun intended?”

“Huh?”

Syanna stared knowingly at her for a moment before it sunk in. She laughed. “I didn’t even think of that.” She pondered something for a moment. “Do you miss him?”

“No. As soon as I left him it was over for me.”

“Is that because of the curse you were telling me about?”

“To be honest, I have no idea.”

Mistle frowned, staring out at the ballroom. Even this late into the night, the crowd was lively and jovial. And here she was sitting at a table, talking to the one person here aside from Falka who understood what she had been through.

“Do you think...” She paused to complete her thought. “Do you think people like us turned out the way we did because of destiny? Was it always meant to be this way?”

Syanna sat quietly for a few moments before replying. “I think questions like that are pointless. You can blame whatever you want, but at the end of the day you play the hand you’re dealt. You don’t get to choose where you start in life. You don’t get to choose what happens to you. The only thing you control is how you respond to it.”

“And if my response is ‘fuck everything?’”

She smiled. “Then you and I have even more in common than I thought.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, just watching the crowd. Eventually she looked up to see Anna Henrietta standing over her.

“There you are,” said the Duchess, who narrowed her eyes at Syanna. “I see you have met my sister.”

Mistle nodded. “She saved me from that vampire you invited.”

“Vampire?”

“Orianna tried to lure her onto the balcony,” said Syanna. “I told her to get her fix from someone else.”

Anna Henrietta sighed. “I told her to be on her best behavior. This is surely payback for what happened at the Mandragora.”

“I’m amazed you let her stay in your precious little fairy tale kingdom instead of chasing her off.”

“What would be the point? If she went underground I would have a much harder time keeping track of her. As it is, higher vampires don’t _have_ to feed on blood. They’re rational beings, and if we’ve coexisted this long then I don’t see the point in banishing her or trying to kill her.”

“You learn all that from your witcher friend?”

“Most of it. But also from her when we talked about it. Orianna was my friend before I found out and she still is. I have no idea why she’d try to attack one of my guests.”

“She mentioned that she knew the guy who owned Tesham Mutna,” said Mistle. “Right before she hypnotized me.”

Syanna raised an eyebrow. “Tesham Mutna? What’s that place got to do with anything?”

“Officially, Mistle here is part owner of that land, at least for the duration of the ball.”

“And you invited a vampire here, knowing that? Have you gone completely insane?”

Mistle looked between them. “What’s going on?”

“Tesham Mutna,” said Syanna. “Is an ancient vampire stronghold. It’s where Dettlaff demanded I meet him to explain myself.”

“I should have anticipated Orianna taking offense to that,” the Duchess admitted. “My deepest apologies, Mistle. And thank you, Syanna, for saving her.”

Syanna shrugged. “I just didn’t want you blaming me.”

“Well, I’ve got to get back to the ball,” said Mistle, standing. “Thanks for keeping me company. And for the advice.”

She smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

* * *

Rosa’s head started to clear about a half hour after their encounter with Philippa Eilhart, and she realized with horror what she’d let slip.

She had never exactly been a nice drunk, but something about the wine, the atmosphere, her parents being absent, and her sister’s encouragement all combined in such a way that she said things without really thinking them through. Things that had now potentially landed she and her sister in trouble.

“Edna? Are you still drunk?”

Her sister shook her head. “I’m here, sister. What is it?”

“I didn’t dream it earlier, right? We really said those things?”

“Of course we did. And we meant them.”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed the sides of her head. “So what if it’s not natural? They seemed happy, right?”

“I suppose so. But do you know who that sorceress was before?”

“No.”

“Philippa Eilhart was originally a Redanian, serving as advisor first under King Vizimir, then under Radovid. She tried to form her own sort of coven and kill all the world leaders so she could place her own people on the throne.”

“How do you know these things, Edna?”

Edna var Attre shrugged. “While you were swinging that sword around, I was busy studying history. That last part only happened about a year ago.”

“So then how did she come to be in service of the Emperor?”

“Apparently Radovid had her eyes gouged out for what she did, but she escaped. The Emperor took in a lot of northern sorceresses after the war for some reason. It’s shameful.”

“Indeed, what is this world coming to?” They turned around to see a bald man wearing a yellow and blue doublet, who bowed in greeting. “A pleasure to meet the sisters var Attre. My name is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Greetings, Gaunter O’Dimm,” said Edna. “You know us?”

“Everyone knows your father,” he said. “And you two are developing reputations of your own.”

“What can we do for you?” asked Rosa.

He placed his hands together. “It’s more a question of what I can do for you. You don’t seem to like these sorceresses very much, but trust me, there’s naught you can do against them.”

“But you can?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “One shouldn’t confront them directly, but in other ways. Undermine them, so to speak.”

“What are you offering?”

“Only advice. There’s someone at this ball that the sorceress Philippa Eilhart covets for her own ends. Get to that person, and you get to her.”

Rosa crossed her arms. “Who?”

“You’ve already met her, actually. The ashen-haired guest of honor, introduced to you as the Countess Falka of Ebbing. Not her real name, of course, but who uses that anymore?”

“And how do you suppose we go about this?” asked Edna.

“I’m confident you’ll think of something,” he replied. “It was lovely meeting you both, but I must tarry on. I still have much to do before the ball is over.”

He melted back into the crowd, and the sisters var Attre stared after him.

“Well then,” said Rosa, a smile creeping across her lips. “I suppose we should go say hello.”

“Indeed, sister. After  you.”

* * *

Triss made her way across the ballroom alone, holding a glass of Erveluce and wishing it was something stronger. Dwarven spirit perhaps, or vodka. At this point she would even take some of that White Seagull that the witchers brewed when she stayed at Kaer Morhen. One glass of that and she’d probably wake up two days later in the middle of a field. But nothing here could give her the oblivion she craved without drinking enough for ten people.

Grumbling, she set the glass down on a passing servant’s tray and kept walking. Just a few feet ahead of her, she found who she was looking for, a young blonde woman with her hair shorn on the sides, wearing a yellow and red dress.

“Greetings. Mistle, right?”

Mistle turned to face her with a raised eyebrow. “That’s me. And you are?”

“Triss Merigold,” she said, then leaned in closer and whispered. “I’m a friend of Ciri’s.”

The other girl’s eyes went wide and she stumbled back a couple steps, nearly falling over. Triss caught her by the hand just in time and kept her steady.

“If you know that name, you must be,” she said, dusting off her dress. “How do you know her, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I helped raise her,” she answered. “Feels like a lifetime ago. Before tonight, that was actually the last time she wore a dress, that I know of at least.”

Staring at her, Mistle wrinkled her brow. “So what do you want with me?”

“I’d like to get to know you. That’s the point of a debutante ball, right?”

“I suppose. What do you want to know?”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Thurn,” she answered. “A medium sized village in Maecht.” She looked away. “At least it used to be.”

“What happened to it?”

“Bandits rode through during one of the Northern wars,” said Mistle. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

 Triss noticed her glancing at the people around them. “Because of them?”

“Not just that. It was so long ago. I don’t like remembering it.”

“You wanna get some air?”

Mistle backed away. “You’re not a vampire, are you?”

“Why would you think I’m a vampire?”

“It’s just you’re the second redhead to ask me out onto the balcony tonight.”

“And the last one was a vampire?”

She nodded.

“I promise I’m not here to suck your blood,” she said. “I just want to hear your story.”

“Why?” Mistle had crossed her arms now and was glaring at her. “You some sort of spy?”

“If I were, I wouldn’t be a very good one,” she replied, smiling. “I care about…” She hesitated, glancing at the crowd around them. “I care about our mutual friend. And if you’re someone important to her, I think I should get to know you.”

She stood there, staring at her, unmoved. “You know, I think I prefer the black-haired one. At least she’s honest about not liking me.”

“Black-haired… you mean Yennefer?”

“Saw you walking off with her earlier,” the young woman said. “And I’ve been interrogated before. She obviously told you how I know Falka, but she didn’t tell you everything. So now you’re trying to get it from the horse’s mouth.”

Triss stood there, flabbergasted. She was dead accurate on all counts, far more than she had expected her to be. She hadn’t put together much of a plan, and thought her approach of being mutual friends with Ciri would be subtle enough to beguile her. She really would make a terrible spy.

“Okay, let’s be direct, then. Why did she arrange this party for you? And why isn’t she using her real name?”

Mistle smiled cruelly. “If Yennefer didn’t see fit to tell you, I don’t get why I should. Try your luck elsewhere, you nosy ginger cunt.”

It took every bit of her self control not to light the girl on fire. Mistle chuckled darkly and walked away, leaving Triss there to seethe. After a minute or so, she managed to quell her temper, and breathed normally again. She glared off in the direction the younger woman had disappeared.

“What the hell does she see in that girl?”

* * *

Geralt stood near the edge of the ballroom, while Yennefer mingled with various nobles and dilettantes. He’d had his fill of socializing for the evening and was now attempting to distract himself with wine, to little effect. Still, he wasn’t trying to get wasted, and the buzz he’d achieved would give him the strength to get through the rest of the affair.

A group of young women observed him from nearby, giggling whenever he returned their gaze. They didn’t interest him. Since Ciri had come of age, his tastes had moved on from the younger maidens that he used to enjoy. It didn’t feel right anymore.

Yennefer provided everything he needed in that regard anyway, and while neither of them had ever been completely monogamous even during the previous times they were together, he found himself less tempted to stray from her than he had been in the past. Maybe he was just getting old and looking to settle down. He’d heard that happened sometimes.

He polished off the rest of the glass, setting it down on a nearby table. He stood there, still watching the crowd.

“Geralt of Rivia. It’s been some time.”

Geralt didn’t even look, but heard the footsteps coming closer to him. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“That’s it? No words of greeting for an old friend?”

“We’re not friends.”

“Associates, then. Business partners, at the very least.”

He turned to look at Gaunter O’Dimm. “Our only relationship was that I was indebted to you. Now I don’t owe you anything.”

“And yet you were expecting me.” He smiled broadly and clasped his hands together. “No doubt Ciri has taken care of explaining everything?”

“Uh-huh. Finding it hard to believe that you just happened to be at a tavern she went to after being injured.”

“What can I say?” he spread his arms out in a grand gesture. “Fate has always been more malleable from my perspective than yours.”

“You set those bandits on her?”

“It sounds like you already know the answer to that.”

“You’re damn lucky I have no idea how to even harm you,” said Geralt. “But if I ever find a way…”

“Yes, yes, you’ll ride to her rescue like a knight in shining armor. I’m starting to understand where she inherited her hero complex from.”

“I don’t have a hero complex,” he insisted. “I’m a witcher, not a knight errant.”

“Yet you consistently apply a different standard to your decisions regarding Ciri than you do to a standard contract bearer. The bonds of destiny only go so far towards explaining that. You’ve risked life and limb for Yennefer countless times as well.”

“That’s called looking after me and my own,” he insisted. “I didn’t try to save Olgierd.”

“Indeed you didn’t. Which makes it all the more curious why you’re helping Ciri stick her neck out for Mistle, who’s worse than Olgierd by far. At least he had a sense of honor, a respect for the law of hospitality. Mistle doesn’t respect anything. She’s ruled purely by contempt. For everyone and everything.”

Geralt crossed his arms. “She’s bound by your contract. I know how that works. Ultimately it’s up to Ciri how she handles things after the wishes are fulfilled.”

“Speaking of which, bravo on this one.” He rotated slowly, gesturing outward with both arms. “I’m finding so much to do at this ball. The possibilities are endless.”

“Having fun, then?”

“Exceedingly so. That smitten knight was the most entertaining.”

“Guillaume? What did you do to him?”

“I gave him what he wished for. Now he can spend the rest of his days at Vivienne’s side. It’s just that now he’ll have to do so while eating out of a bowl.”

“That’s it? You just cursed him? I thought you only took payment in souls.”

“Not all the time. It depends on what someone wishes for. To fulfill Olgierd’s demands took an extraordinary amount of power and finagling with certain associates of mine.  The price had to be equal to the task. Whereas this… well, a curse is fitting enough.”

Geralt shook his head and sighed. “It figures he’d make a deal like that.”

“Not going to try to save him?”

“Not unless somebody pays me to.”

“Yes, now I remember. You’re a witcher, not a hero.”

“What about Mistle? What price are you exacting from her? Gotta imagine coming back from the dead is a whole lot more expensive than having your fortune restored.”

“Is it though? You and Yennefer managed it once.”

“I still don’t know how. It had something to do with the Isle of Avalon, but even I’m not completely sure what happened.”

“Perhaps Destiny decided you weren’t done yet.”

“Maybe. Plan on telling me what you want from the girl?”

“Not particularly. I think I’ll let it be a surprise.”

Geralt stared, crossing his arms. “Surprises from you are rarely pleasant.”

“How boring would it be if they were? At any rate, I thank all of you for this magnificent evening. I’ve arranged my own finale of sorts. I think you’ll get quite a kick out of it.”

“What did you do?”

“I shan’t spoil a thing,” O’Dimm insisted. “Suffice it to say that I’ve a wish to fulfill myself. Enjoy the fireworks.”

He walked behind Geralt, and the sound of footsteps abruptly stopped.


	7. Misery Business

Despite promising herself long ago that she wouldn’t get involved in trivial conversations, Yennefer of Vengerberg currently found herself in the middle of a heated discussion over the proper use of concealing ointment. Her partner in this conversation, Vivienne de Tabris, paid no attention to the bulldog that had somehow ended up in the ballroom, which was currently sniffing excitedly at her heels.

“All I’m saying is, it’s no wonder he became obsessed with you if you were coating yourself in the stuff. Concealing ointments are essentially glamour by a different name. You should never use them unless you _want_ everyone to stare at you like you’re the second coming of Lebioda. To say nothing of the fact that you could easily have killed yourself by using it.”

“You speak true. But what could I do? If my curse had been revealed I would have lost my standing at court, to say nothing of the ridicule I would have faced.”

Yennefer cocked one eyebrow and squinted with the opposite eye. “You live in a place where the highest authority in the land is obsessed with making fairy tales come true, many of which involve lifting such curses, and you honestly thought no one would understand?”

“Her Grace was aware,” she said. “At my request, she kept me cloistered from all but a handful of people. It was easier to hide such an affliction if people already thought me aloof and mysterious.”

“And supernaturally beautiful.”

“This is also true.”

“Geralt told me how he went about lifting the curse. Amateur work, honestly. It could easily have backfired and left you with a shortened lifespan.”

Vivienne smiled sadly. “He told me as much. But I would take seven years of life in which I didn’t have to hide myself away, rather than spend the rest of my days slowly transforming into an oriole. And I certainly wouldn’t wish to pass the curse on to anyone else.”

“You’re lucky this wasn’t his first time doing it. A long time ago, almost twenty years now I think of it, I met a Baron on a dragon hunt whom Geralt had previously cured of slowly transforming into a cormorant.”

“Yes, he told me of that when he offered to cure me. You were hunting a dragon?”

“Me and a small army,” she answered. “King Niedamir was around fifteen at the time. Apparently the princess of Malleore could only be married to one who had slain a dragon. So when it came out that a peasant had filled a dead sheep with poison and tricked a green dragon into eating it, he jumped at the opportunity and hired just about every dragon hunter in the area.”

“I’ve known many knights who hunted dragons,” said Palmerin, seated next to them. “Now I can only raise a toast in their memory.”

“Honestly, there’s not that much glory in it. Geralt only got roped into it because he’d heard I was there, and I… I had my own reasons.”

“What were they?”

“I wanted to undo a wish,” the sorceress replied. “But I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I found another way.”

“Why did you want to undo the wish?”

“Because I wasn’t the one who made it.”

Vivienne nodded in understanding, and did not press further.

“At any rate, I’m capable of far greater magic than a witcher. If you ever need anything and don’t wish the mages at court to know, you’re welcome to come see me.”

“I may do that soon.”

Yennefer heard heels clacking against the floor of the ballroom and turned to see Anna Henrietta making her way over. She was smiling politely, as any decent host should, but her eyes told a different story.

“We trust that all of you are enjoying the evening?”

They nodded.

“Yennefer was just telling us of the time she hunted a dragon,” said Vivienne. “I would love to hear more.”

“There’s not much more to tell. A golden dragon sent a rockslide down on us and we barely survived, then it crippled a knight errant named Eyck of Denesle. Then everyone turned on each other, the Crinfrid Reavers ripped my shirt open and tried to rape me, and Dandelion wouldn’t stop staring at my naked tits.”

Vivienne put a hand over her mouth. “That sounds terrible!”

“Indeed,” said Palmerin. “But didn’t you say it was a green dragon you were hunting?”

“We were. The golden dragon used polymorphy to disguise himself as human and joined the hunting party to give the green one time to escape. Geralt let him go, and I honestly didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Viscount Julian told us that story once,” said Anna Henrietta. “Though he omitted the part about your… tits.”

“Well that doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Perhaps he tailored the story for his audience,” she said. “Regardless, he has been banished from Toussaint for life due to his tendency to stray to the beds of others. But that is neither here nor there.” She turned to Vivienne and Palmerin. “May we borrow Yennefer for a minute?”

“Of course,” said Vivienne. Palmerin only nodded.

Yennefer stood and walked with the Duchess to a more secluded corner of the ballroom. “What is it?”

“I don’t wish to tell you not to enjoy yourself, but I could use some help keeping track of our guests of honor. Has Geralt told you of Orianna?”

“Yes. Patroness of the Mandragora, leader in the art community. And a vampire.”

“She tried to lure Mistle out to the balcony to show her an unpleasant time. My sister of all people stopped her.”

“Your sister who used a vampire as an assassin to kill the knights who banished her and wanted to kill you as well? Why did she even care enough to step in?”

“That remains a mystery to me, though she claims it was because she didn’t want to risk my ire. As if that has ever deterred her.”

“It’s too bad. Your vampire friend might have solved our problem.”

The Duchess’ eyes widened. “What do you mean by that? I thought the whole point of this ball was to fulfill her wish.”

“Yes, but I’m only doing this for Ciri. I don’t rightly know what she sees in that girl, but Mistle has gotten her entangled in something well over her head.”

“The pact with the demon, I know. But I had no idea you disliked her so.”

“That’s surprising, since I’ve not made an effort to hide it,” the sorceress replied. “What of Ciri? Has anybody seen her?”

“Not since I finished introducing her to the guests. The last I saw her, she was conversing with Gaunter O’Dimm.”

Yennefer inhaled sharply. “You know Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“Of course. He’s been a patron of the arts for the last several years.”

“That’s not all he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain later,” she said, starting to walk. “Right now we have to find Ciri. I don’t know what he’s planning, but it can’t be good.”

Neither of them found her until it was too late.

* * *

Triss and Geralt found each other at roughly the same time.

“Hi Geralt,” she greeted, glancing around at the people within earshot. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

“Of course.” They made their way outside, towards the gardens. Along the way, Geralt squinted at her, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Well, let’s see,” she said, counting off her fingers. “Philippa invited me here with no explanation other than it being Lodge business, I landed myself in the middle of something where I have no idea what’s going on, and when I tried to get some information from Ciri’s friend, she called me a ginger cunt. So no, Geralt. I’m not okay.”

“Getting that upset over name-calling? I know it’s a strong word, but you’ve never been one to let that bother you.”

They had reached the garden by now, passing by the throng of revelers who were still entranced by the entertainment on offer. She wished she could be like them.

“A strong word? Geralt, you’re not a woman, so I don’t expect you to understand, but calling that a ‘strong word’ is like saying the Church of the Eternal Fire has been holding a series of friendly neighborhood barbeques.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. That’s not what upset me.”

“Then what?”

“Nobody ever tells me anything! And when I try to find out on my own they treat me like I can’t handle it.”

“Triss, that’s not true. I’ve trusted you with plenty of secrets. You’ve been an advisor to two kings, and you’re a member of the Lodge. You actually knew more than I did about a lot of things that happened over the years.”

“Well it’s how I feel. Why can’t people be direct anymore? Why do I have to go snooping around to find things that ought to have been shared with me from the start?”

“Like what?”

“Like whatever’s going on with Ciri. Or do you want to hide that from me too?”

Geralt shook his head. “Yen didn’t tell you?”

“She told me some of it. Then we ran into Gaunter O’Dimm and she brushed me off, promising to tell me later.”

“Gaunter O’Dimm spoke with you?”

Triss crossed her arms. “Yes, he did. Why do you have that look on your face? You only get that look when you think I’m in danger.”

“Not you. I just got done talking to him myself. I’m worried he might have something bad planned for Ciri.”

“Why does everyone seem so afraid of him? What is he, really?”

“I have no idea,” said Geralt. “Gaunter O’Dimm is only one of the names he goes by. There are records of him tracing back even before the Conjunction of the Spheres. Whatever he is, he’s very old, and very powerful.”

“Some sort of demon, then?”

“More like the physical embodiment of Evil.”

Triss clasped the sides of her head and sat down on a nearby bench. Geralt sat next to her. Around them, the party continued. The illusionist that she and Yennefer had passed earlier was still aweing the crowd, and the games were in full swing. She even saw Albert Vegelbud sorting through a few boxes next to a stage, preparing for something.

“And Ciri made a deal with him? Why?”

“Let’s just say he’s good at finding people at their lowest moment.”

“No, let’s not just say that. Tell me what really happened.”

Geralt sighed. “The other woman, Mistle, is still a gang leader. Two members of that gang snuck up on Ciri while she was camping, stole everything from her, and stabbed her in the belly. She walked five miles to a tavern, where Gaunter O’Dimm was waiting for her. When I asked him earlier, he all but confirmed that he’s the one who led those bandits to her in the first place.”

“So what does she have to do to repay him? I know he brought Mistle back to life, but Yennefer didn’t tell me anything after that.”

“Mistle promised him her soul as payment in return for his services,” he explained. “At least I think that’s what he asked for. The terms of the contract state that Gaunter O’Dimm can only collect his payment after three wishes are fulfilled, but he can’t fulfill them himself, so he has to use Ciri as a proxy. I had to do the same thing for him once.”

“Why make a contract like that?”

“Because it leads the person entering into the contract to believe there’s no way for him to ever collect,” Geralt said. “But he enjoys the challenge. He’s smarter and more clever than you could even imagine. Supposedly you can stop him from taking his payment and banish him if you challenge him after the wishes are fulfilled, but…”

“But what?”

“I chose a different option. I thought if I let him take his payment and absolve me of my debt, then that would be the last time I saw him. Really regretting that now.”

“Do you think Ciri’s up to it? Challenging him?”

“If anyone’s even close to his level of power, it’s Ciri. After what happened with the Wild Hunt I’ve learned not to underestimate her. We just gotta have faith.”

“I suppose. I still don’t like this, though.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Albert Vegelbud announced from the stage. “Prepare for a sight unlike any other! You’ve seen things that sparkle, things that go boom, but you’ve never seen the custom fireworks of Albert Vegelbud! Behold!”

“Oh!” She sat up straighter. “This should be exciting! Do you remember the fireworks we saw at the Vegelbud Estate? Apparently Albert mixed them himself.”

Geralt said nothing, only stared at the display while deep in thought. Triss smacked her forehead.

“Right. Forgot. Don’t tell Yennefer I said that.”

He didn’t reply.

“Geralt? Are you okay?”

His head lifted slightly, as if something of great importance had finally registered within his mind. “Fireworks.”

“Yes, fireworks. They’re pretty, right?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm said something about arranging his own finale,” he explained, turning his head to face her. “He said to enjoy the fireworks.”

Her eyes went wide. “Then that means…”

“We need to find Ciri. Now.”

But it was already too late.

* * *

A thundercloud in the form of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon passed through the ballroom, and didn’t stop to acknowledge the other guests she passed. There was no smile on her face, no practiced etiquette to her movement. She marched straight ahead, with one thing on her mind.

She found Mistle towards the middle of the ballroom, getting drunk off her ass. The other woman was laughing hysterically at a conversation with random people that Ciri had been introduced to at one point but had now forgotten. Those people didn’t matter. None of this mattered.

Mistle noticed her as she approached. “Falka? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Can we go somewhere else?”

“Of course.”

“Now hold on a second!” one of the other partygoers protested. “I wasn’t done with my story. So there I was, nekkers all around me, who were pissed off as all hell that I’d landed in their nest. So I reached for my sword and…”

“You’re lying.” It wasn’t Ciri who said it, but the words left her mouth. “You were with your wife when you came upon them. You shoved her towards them and ran. Didn’t even turn around when you heard her screaming while they ripped her apart.”

“I beg your pardon! My wife has been visiting family in Nilfgaard for the last several months now!”

“Not true. She’s just a pile of bones in a nekker lair.”

“I say! It’s fortunate that you’re a woman, else I would demand satisfaction!”

“Wouldn’t count on it. You’re a spineless coward and you always have been, Tanroy Englehardt. You only made up the story about your wife traveling so nobody would wonder why you didn’t even grieve for her. You never loved her, and you certainly don’t mind the substantial fortune she left you.”

He stood there, completely stunned. The other guests turned their faces towards him slowly, dumbstruck by the revelation. If he noticed this at all, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“I never told you my name…”

“Let’s go, Mistle.” She led the other woman by the hand across the floor.

“That was amazing, Falka! How did you know all that?”

“I didn’t. It just comes to me sometimes. Usually when I drink.”

“Do someone else!”

Ciri shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Alright.” She pondered for a moment. “Hold on a second.”

“What?”

“You just did to that gentleman what Gaunter O’Dimm did to me earlier. Have you always been able to do that?”

“More or less. Ever since I started studying at Kaer Morhen.”

“How?”

“It’s the Elder Blood. It lets me divine the true nature of things, and reveal secrets I shouldn’t know. I can even tell the future sometimes.”

“How does he do it, then?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong. But I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“Lead on, then.”

The two of them continued walking across the ballroom, dodging conversations along the way and leaving a trail of offended guests in their wake. Ciri didn’t care. She had to get out of here. They were almost out the door when Rosa var Attre stepped in front of her.

“You’re going somewhere in a hurry.”

Ciri sent a glare of pure hatred her way. “Yes I am. Now move.”

“Oh my! No manners at all! I’m shocked. Aren’t you shocked, sister?”

“Shocked? Why, I’m appalled!” said Edna. “They’ll make anybody a countess these days.”

Mistle stepped forward, still holding Ciri’s hand. “Didn’t you hear her? She said move.”

“And you, you’re even worse. I have no idea why Her Illustrious Highness the Duchess agreed to throw this ball for you if you’re not going to be respectful of the people who came here.”

“It would help if the people who came here were respectful of us,” replied Ciri. “And got out of the way when asked to.”

“We’re just trying to get to know you better,” Rosa said in a mocking, saccharine tone. “Not that it’s any mystery why you’re running off. We all saw that display earlier.”

“That was the point.”

“What point was that, I wonder?” asked Edna. “You’re clearly not from the South, given you’ve no respect for our customs. Where did you say you were from? Ebbing? That place has never really been part of the Empire. It’s almost as bad as the North.”

“Well said, sister. It’s positively riddled with bandits. I’ve no idea why the Empire tolerates them. The lot of them should be rounded up and killed.”

“Might prove harder than you think,” said Mistle. “Besides, it’s south of here at any rate.”

“Where did they dig you up? You clearly don’t belong here. Neither of you do.”

Ciri moved closer to Rosa and stared her down. “As opposed to you? You’re not better than us.”

“I beg to differ,” the Nilfgaardian replied. “You might be gentry by some cosmic fluke, but you’ve no idea what real nobility is.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Would I now?”

“You would.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re a freak of nature, and a slutty one at that. Your friend is even worse. Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised that those sorceress friends of yours are all leaping to defend you. I wish we were in Novigrad, for I’d denounce you and have you burned at the stake, you fucking—“

Ciri punched her in the face.

She went down hard, hitting the floor with a crack and staring up at her with a broken nose. A raging inferno burned behind Ciri’s green eyes, and her anger was clamoring to be released, like a dog struggling against its chain. But she held it back.

“How do they say it here?” she said calmly, ice cold fury underlying her voice. “’I demand satisfaction?’ Well you’re going to give me some, you heinous, stuck up bitch.”

Rosa stared at her in fear, trying to stop the blood from pouring out of her face.

“A challenge has been issued!” called the herald, who had just appeared next to her.

Also showing up around this time were Duchess Anna Henrietta and her sister Sylvia Anna, along with Morvran Voorhis, Maria Louisa La Valette, Vivienne de Tabris, Palmerin de Launfal, Philippa Eilhart, Triss Merigold, Yennefer of Vengerberg, and Geralt of Rivia.

As well as everybody else in the ballroom.

Ciri kept her eyes locked on Rosa. “Garden. Thirty minutes. Bring a sword.”

She walked away, and Mistle followed.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, after both of them had changed into outfits more suitable for combat, Ciri twirled her sword around with her wrist, looping it to either side of her before whirling around with a quick spin, lunging forward with her weight on her right leg and bringing the sword around after her in a diagonal slash. She struck air, but then the duel hadn’t started yet.

The sword was heavier than she was used to. So be it. If she were to have _Zirael_ with her, the fight would be over too quickly. She wanted to enjoy herself.

It had been too long since she’d had a proper swordfight. She mostly fought monsters nowadays, and while they provided a challenge of their own, there was something special about facing off against an opponent on equal terms. She loved the analysis beforehand, studying the opponent’s pattern of attack, watching for an opening, and then striking swiftly and without mercy. There was nothing else quite like it.

Watching Rosa work her way through basic forms did not prove a difficult puzzle to crack. She came on with a strong offense, laying all her best cards on the table at the start and hoping to win with overwhelming power. The trick, then, was to wait until she tired herself out, then retaliate quickly and precisely.

Geralt stared hard at her from the sidelines, and she felt as though she were back at Kaer Morhen. She could feel his eyes evaluating her, judging her performance. But he hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. That meant he trusted her. Yennefer remained silent as well, while Triss was clearly dying to say something but allowed the other two to hold her back.

They had all said their piece while she prepared, and it made no difference. Yennefer warned her about keeping a low profile, Triss objected on moral grounds, and Geralt refused to interfere. Ultimately the matter was settled when the Duchess reminded them that once a challenge was issued, the duel had to take place unless the parties resolved the conflict by other means, and that wasn’t going to happen. In Toussaint, tradition was everything.

Anarietta had offered to delay the duel until morning, but Ciri declined. She didn’t relish the thought of lying awake all night with a cauldron of rage boiling inside her, and she planned to leave Touissant in the morning anyway. It had to happen now. Rosa evidently felt the same way.

They stood on opposite ends of a circular stone platform within the palace gardens, and a crowd had gathered around them. Duchess Anna Henrietta stood at the edge of the circle, addressing them.

“As tradition demands, the dispute between Countess Falka of Ebbing and Lady Rosa var Attre will be settled by a duel. Before it begins, tradition also demands that we outline the rules. The first is that in Toussaint, duels to the death are outlawed. The duel shall continue until one party either yields or is rendered incapable of continuing. Secondly, the fight will be a fair and honorable one. Dirty tactics are not allowed. You will fight as the chivalric code demands, be you knights or otherwise.”

Neither of them said anything. Mistle gave Ciri a nod from behind her.

“Finally,” said Anna Henrietta, “the duel is meant to mark the end of the conflict. Once it is over, there will be no reprisals from either side. Is that understood?”

She and Rosa nodded.

“Then let the duel commence. May the better woman win.”

The Duchess stepped back into the crowd, and they began to circle each other.

Rosa made the first move, straight out of a textbook. Three short steps, a quick feint to the right, then a thrust towards her face. Ciri stepped into the feint, calling her bluff and causing her to strike nothing but air when she moved her sword to the left, where she had expected Ciri to dodge. From here, she could spin around and slice the other woman open, or stick her sword directly in her path and skewer her up to the hilt. She opted to do neither, pirouetting out of the way instead.

She pursued her, off her rhythm but still showing plenty of aggression, swiping her sword recklessly in an arc behind her. Ciri hopped back, then sidestepped the subsequent overhand strike. She placed a foot between Rosa’s legs as her opponent moved forward, causing her to stumble and crash to the ground. The crowd laughed.

Were this a fight to the death, Ciri would not have hesitated to strike the other woman while she was down. As it was, she stood a safe distance away and twirled her sword idly, waiting for her to rise.

“Better get comfortable down there,” she taunted, unable to resist. “Very comfortable.”

Gnashing her teeth, Rosa snarled and launched herself after her, swiping once, twice, three times in quick succession. Ciri ducked to the side each time, not bothering to bat them away with her sword. The onslaught was designed to weaken an opponent’s guard with powerful strikes, softening them up for the next round. She countered by not engaging, allowing Rosa to tire herself out.

To her credit, she had considerable stamina. But she hadn’t progressed past the basics of swordplay, and it was plain to see why. Rosa valued raw strength over technique, which had to be why she burned through so many tutors. Typical Nilfgaardian. Believing that the only way to defeat an opponent was to overwhelm them with sheer force. Ciri toyed with her, stepping deftly out of the way of the savage strikes with her sword held behind her back.

“Stop dancing and fight!”

Rosa slashed down with a predictable overhead swing, which she dodged by stepping to the right. In the second that she left herself open, Ciri struck at Rosa’s face with the pommel of her sword, breaking her nose all over again. Ciri slammed into her with her shoulder and sent her tumbling down.

This time Rosa surprised her, grabbing her arm on the way down and dragging Ciri to the ground with her. She escaped her grasp easily but could not stop herself from falling, transitioning instead into a quick roll which ended in her standing a few feet away. Rosa stood again, blood dripping down her face and reddening her teeth.

“Is this what you imagined from your adventure novels?” Ciri asked cruelly. “Not quite as romantic in real life, is it?”

That got her the response she was looking for: a blind charge from the other woman that she could easily sidestep or parry. Ciri was so certain of her imminent victory that she failed to pay attention to the fact that Rosa was preparing to spit. Then there was blood in her eyes, and Rosa was swinging at her hard, which she heard rather than saw. It was only her years of training with a blindfold that saved her.

Their swords connected for the first time as Ciri had no choice but to block directly.

“Foul!” called Damien de la Tour, Captain of the Ducal Guard, who was serving as referee. “The Duchess said no dirty tactics. Lady Rosa var Attre loses the duel.”

“No, no,” said Ciri, laughing as she wiped the blood off with her sleeve. “As you can see, I defended myself just fine. It’s not her fault she’s so remedial that she needs to level the playing field a bit. I could fight her blindfolded and still win.”

“We cannot allow that,” said Anna Henrietta. “Here, duels are fought without handicaps, without resorting to base tactics. The ladies will fight honorably or not at all.”

She frowned. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Neither am I,” said Rosa. “But fine. I can play fair.”

The blood remained smeared over Ciri’s eyes like war paint, and she flashed a grin. “En garde, then.”

Rosa swung at her again, and Ciri batted it to the side, stepping around her as her opponent charged forward like a raging bull. Furious as she was, Ciri had enough training not to let it interfere with her technique. Besides, punching Rosa var Attre in the face had cleared her head just enough to where she could channel that anger instead of letting it rule her. Which was a lesson the other woman apparently had yet to learn.

This time she went on the offensive, slashing hard at Rosa while she stumbled and tried to turn around after overshooting her target. The young Nilfgaardian barely blocked in time, catching herself on one foot but leaving herself horribly off balance as Ciri approached holding the sword by her side, facing down, then raised it above her head and twirled it around while she spun, building up momentum before bringing the full weight of it crashing down on top of her.

As she held the sword above her, Rosa’s knees buckled, but she remained standing. If she wanted to, Ciri could finish the fight right then, but she had more to teach the other woman. She slammed the pommel into Rosa’s solar plexus, sending her staggering back. She did not give chase, but moved the sword behind her back and stretched out her hand, beckoning her with her fingers.

It took her a few seconds, but Rosa recovered, and came back at her with a vengeance. Ciri returned to dodging her blows, letting her tire herself out before stepping inside her guard, grabbing her wrist, bringing her elbow down on her forearm, and grabbing her sword as it fell from her hand. She continued to twirl, kicking out the back of Rosa’s leg and sending her to her knees. She brought both swords around as she completed her final rotation, and held them to the back of her neck.

“The fight is ended!” announced Damien. “Rosa var Attre, do you yield?”

“She doesn’t,” said Ciri. “I’ve not even begun to show her who she’s messing with.” She looked down at Rosa. “On your feet.”

“Stop this,” ordered the Duchess. “You’ve won. There’s no need for this. You’re getting out of control.”

“I’m fine. You said the duel will continue until one of us either yields, or is unable to go on.”

“The decision to yield is still your opponent’s, not yours.”

“I don’t yield!” shouted Rosa var Attre as she snatched her sword back. “I’m going to drive this bitch’s face into the dirt!”

She smiled. “Well there you have it. Try to hang onto that this time.”

Rosa only snarled. They faced off once more, and started circling each other.

 ‘ _Ciri._ ’

She kept her eyes on her opponent, but the voice still caught her off guard, causing her to block Rosa’s next strike somewhat clumsily, at least by her standards.

‘ _Kind of busy, Yennefer._ ’

‘ _I’ll be brief. Don’t keep toying with the girl. Amusing as it may be, this isn’t you. We didn’t teach you to fight like this._ ’

‘ _No, you didn’t. I had to learn it on my own. Now get out of my head._ ’

She heard nothing more, and returned her focus to the fight. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she caught Geralt shaking his head disapprovingly, while Triss looked on in horror.

To hell with them. To hell with their lessons. They weren’t what kept her alive in the desert. They didn’t see her through her time with the Rats. They didn’t save her from Bonhart. Yennefer was right, in a way. They hadn’t taught her to be ruthless. They hadn’t taught her to be cruel. They hadn’t taught her to toy with opponents who were so far inferior to her that they didn’t warrant her true strength. Yet those lessons, which she’d learned the hard way, had gotten her through that time of her life.

By now, seeing through Rosa’s gambit had become childishly simple, and her opponent lacked the energy to keep this up. Ciri began to counterattack, throwing her off her game by hitting her with strange timing and from unexpected angles.

That was the true genius of her style. The witchers had taught her the forms, but Ciri found new ways to combine them and think her way through fights instead of just reacting. Before Thanedd, before Bonhart, she’d often felt as though the movements she’d learned at Kaer Morhen performed themselves, just as she’d had no control over her powers at the time. But now she had mastered both, and was able to achieve a state of simultaneous action and reaction, planning ten moves ahead while the motions just came naturally.

She heard Rosa breathing heavily now, smelled the sweat as she struggled to maintain a strategy that depended on finishing one’s opponent swiftly lest they gain the upper hand. Which Ciri now possessed in spades.

The fight became a blur of motion as she swatted away Rosa’s feeble attempts at attacking one who had defeated swordsmen far beyond mortal reckoning. If she weren’t making do with such a common sword, there were a thousand more ways she could end this fight. But that would be far too easy.

By now she had become lost in the frenzy, caught up in the dance, the intoxicating heat of battle. She laughed as Rosa struggled to even hit her, breaking from her rigid practice forms and swinging wildly on instinct while Ciri danced around her.

This was strength. This was power. This was what she had been missing this whole time. Something dark awoke from deep within her, and she reveled in it, letting it fill her with perverse glee. She’d almost forgotten this feeling. The last time she’d felt it, she went by the same name that she did tonight.

As Rosa charged at her again, she parried the blow, then pirouetted around her, slashing hard at her back. She planned to miss her, to give her yet another shot at trying to best her. And earlier in the fight, that may have happened. But this time, Rosa was just a second slower, and the blow connected.

Rosa screamed, and Ciri’s joy turned immediately to horror.

The sword carved a gash diagonally across her back, slicing through part of the spine just a few inches above the tailbone. The lusty heat of combat that had enveloped her evaporated at once and was replaced with icy dread. She hadn’t meant for that to happen.

Edna var Attre was at her sister’s side at once, even as Rosa began to bleed onto the stone. “Rosa! Rosa are you alright? Talk to me!”

“Sister?”

“I’m here, Rosa. Stay with me.”

“I can’t … I can’t feel my legs.”

The sword clattered on the ground, and Ciri dropped to her knees, staring silently at what she had wrought.

“This is all your doing!” Edna screamed at her, while she listened numbly. “I’ll kill you for this! I have a powerful family! Powerful friends! We’ll hunt you down and kill you, you filthy fucking whore!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Anna Henrietta, looking at the scene with disappointment. “As we said, the duel marks the end of the conflict.”

“I don’t care! She crippled my sister! I’ll—“

“Silence! Another word, and you will spend the night in the dungeon until you cool off.”

Edna said nothing more, but started crying. The healers had arrived by now, and one of them led her off to the side while the others started stabilizing Rosa.

Ciri continued to stare.

“That was amazing!” said Mistle, running over to embrace her. “You really put her in her place!”

“I didn’t mean it,” she said tonelessly. “I swear I didn’t mean to do it.”

“What are you talking about? That was brilliant!”

She didn’t respond. She looked up to the crowd. Triss was looking away, as though ready to throw up. Yennefer glared, but at Mistle, not at her. And Geralt… Geralt stared at her, and she at him. But she sensed neither congratulations or admonition from his gaze. He was simply neutral.

Above them all, watching from the balcony, Gaunter O’Dimm smiled darkly and clapped his hands.


	8. Aftermath

“Well, that was a catastrophe,” said Anna Henrietta once the guests had left for the evening. Geralt, Yennefer, and Triss remained, as did Philippa for some reason. They stood in the empty ballroom, looking out over the evening’s carnage. Ciri and Mistle were off in the corner, waiting for the former to recover from her stupor. “Would someone care to explain to me what happened?”

“Before we do, we need to set one rule,” said Yennefer. “Not a word of this gets back to the Emperor.”

“Agreed,” replied Philippa. “This concerns the Lodge now. And Geralt, since he insists on taking responsibility for the girl.”

“And His Imperial Majesty would surely have my head for allowing such a royal embarrassment, cousins or not,” said Anna Henrietta. “This will not leave Toussaint. I guarantee you.”

“It won’t leave this room,” said Triss. “Agreed?”

They all nodded.

“I repeat my question. What happened?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm happened,” said Geralt, arms crossed, standing in the middle of all of them. “Right before the fight went down he told me he had something special planned. Told me to watch out for fireworks, but I think that was just to get me out of the room.”

“What does a former merchant of mirrors turned patron of the arts have to do with this?”

“As I said, that’s not all he is,” Yennefer answered. “He’s the very demon with whom Mistle made a pact.”

“And none of you thought to warn me? I could have had him stopped at the gates!”

Geralt shook his head. “Not letting him in wouldn’t be such a good idea. The cook at my vineyard refused him hospitality a hundred years ago, and he turned her into a spotted wight. Not that it would stop him from getting in either way.”

They all stared at him.

“What?”

“You’ll understand if we all find that scenario a bit ridiculous,” said Philippa. “Which isn’t to say we don’t believe you. Personally I find it hard to accept you have your own cook.”

“That wasn’t the only person he cursed. You used to be a Redanian, once upon a time. Ever heard of the von Everec family?”

“Degenerates, all. What have they got to do with this?”

“The last of their line, Olgierd, met Gaunter O’Dimm after the family fell on hard times and the love of his life was about to be married off to a prince from Ofier. He wished for him to be cursed, and O’Dimm turned the prince into frog. A giant one that prowled Oxenfurt’s sewers, eating people who were tricked into going down there and poisoning the water supply.”

“So the rumors were true.”

“Hell, just tonight he turned Guillaume de Launfal into a dog and gave him to Vivienne as a gift.” Again, everybody stared at him. “It’s true.”

“It would explain how that dog just appeared,” said Yennefer. “Should we even tell her?”

“Of course we should tell her!” the Duchess insisted. “How dare he curse one of my knights!”

“If there’s a contract in it for me, I can try lifting it,” said Geralt. “But who knows? Maybe they’ll be happy this way. I’m guessing his wish went something along the lines of being by her side forever. You’re right, though; Vivienne should at least know about it.”

“Somehow I doubt the former victim of a curse would be willing to keep him in that state while she slowly falls in love with his uncle.” Now everyone stared at Yennefer. “What? None of you saw it?”

Triss raised an eyebrow. “Most of us had other things on our mind.”

“Well so did I but I’m not blind.” She glanced at Anna Henrietta. “Anymore.”

“As I told you while planning this occasion, Fringilla has not visited in years. You needn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” said the Duchess. “The question remains. What happens next?”

“Still gotta fulfill the wish, to the letter,” said Geralt. “That means Mistle has to spend the night here.”

“Do you _truly_ think that is at the top of my priorities right now?” the Duchess thundered. “The reputation of the entire Duchy has been tarnished by this embarrassment! I am covering it up not because I give one whit about the wishes of some brigand, but because as I mentioned previously, if word of this got out, my head would roll! Were it not for that, Witcher, I would throw the lot of you in the dungeon and wash my hands of this accursed affair!”

She panted heavily, then took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, composing herself.

“However,” she continued, “this is not about what I want. The last time you advised me of how to deal with such a powerful foe, I did not listen.” Her eyes moved to the floor for a moment. “And Beauclair suffered for my arrogance. I have decided the girl may stay here for the night.”

“Glad we could reach an agreement,” he replied flatly.

“And what of Ciri?”

“Not sure she’s up to it,” he replied, glancing over to where she and Mistle were sitting. From here, he could hear her starting to cry, which meant that the shock was wearing off. “Yen and I could put her up for the night.”

“Agreed,” said Yennefer. “The exact wording of the wish only specified Mistle staying the night here. I don’t want them near each other.”

A scowl made its way across Philippa’s face. “I wonder what you could have against it.”

“Plenty. Did you see how she was acting after the duel? The girl clearly has no empathy for anybody. No surprise, seeing how she’s a bandit.”

“She seems to care for Ciri a great deal.”

“Only as someone to manipulate. I’m sure Triss passed on all I told her about Ciri’s adventures after Thanedd.”

Triss’ eyes widened, and she looked between the two of them. “Wait, you _wanted_ her to hear it?”

“I knew she would somehow coerce you into telling her, so I only revealed what she would have figured out anyway. I’m not angry, Triss. You’re a good informer, but that by definition makes you a terrible confidante. That’s just how the game works.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t even know she’d figured the whole thing out until we all met up later. You let it slip and now you’re trying to save face by claiming you planned it all along.”

“Even so, I was right about her getting you to spill everything.”

“You can hardly blame her for that,” said Philippa. “I am very good at getting her to talk.”

“Both of you are terrible!” Triss screamed. “This is Ciri’s future we’re talking about, and you’re still playing spy games?”

“We can’t help it,” Philippa replied, shrugging. “What about you, Triss? What’s your opinion on the girl?”

“I can’t exactly say we got off on the right foot. Yenna’s right. She’s a bad influence.”

“It is becoming rapidly clear why Syanna developed such an interest in her,” said Anna Henrietta, pinching the bridge of her nose while shaking her head. “However, I must point out that Cirilla is an adult, and may decide for herself where she spends the night. She is welcome to do so here if she wishes.”

“I do.”

Everyone but Geralt looked at Ciri in surprise. He had heard her approach and was already turning to face her.

“I’m sorry for ruining the evening,” she said, tonelessly. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She looked utterly drained, all the anger and sadistic glee she’d exhibited earlier having evaporated and left an empty shell behind. It wasn’t how he liked seeing her, but Geralt would be lying to himself if he said it was the first time he’d witnessed it. Only before, it was in his dreams. Dreams which also involved Mistle.

Mistle stood beside her, not looking the least bit bothered by this circumstance. O’Dimm was right; Olgierd von Everec had been a decent, honorable man who was slowly corrupted by the pact he’d made, until his heart turned to stone and he came to feel nothing at all. But even before she had died and come back to life, Geralt knew from his dreams that Mistle was already rotten to the core.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Ciri,” Yennefer said gently, moving closer to her and caressing her face. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” She closed her eyes. “Please, Yennefer. I haven’t the strength to argue right now.”

“I can’t force you to see things my way,” the sorceress replied. “Just promise me you won’t lose yourself to this.”

She smiled sadly. “It might be too late for that.”

Yennefer drew her into a hug, and tears began streaming down Ciri’s face again. “Come by in the morning for your things.”

“I will.”

“I’ll see you then, little Swallow.”

Triss hugged her next. “I’ll be by tomorrow too. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and I’d really rather not end things like this.”

“Neither would I.”

“I’ll see you later, little sister.” She released her.

Next she moved to Geralt.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used what you taught me like that.”

He crossed his arms, staring down at her. There was a time for him to be a comforter, and a time for him to be an instructor. This wasn’t the time for either. He had to be a father.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he replied, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. “Because I didn’t teach you any of that. I’ve never seen you move like that before. You’re really coming into your own.”

Ciri made a confused chuckle and then embraced him. “You’re not angry?”

“How can I be? That wasn’t half as bad as the worst things I’ve ever done. O’Dimm got to you. We all understand that. It’s nothing to beat yourself up over.”

She shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning. For now, be safe.”

“I will.” They separated, and all of them said their goodbyes. A guard was summoned to escort Ciri and Mistle upstairs, and they followed. The rest of them dispersed soon after.

None of them noticed a black and purple mist moving quickly along the floor.

* * *

All told, Syanna had slept in worse places than the dungeons of Beauclair Palace. Her normal room was occupied tonight for a reason Anarietta had not deigned to share with her, but which involved the enchanting guest of honor she’d gotten the chance to meet. She would have liked to get to know her more and swap stories meant for less polite company about their lives on the road. But she was satisfied with the conversation she had gotten.

The bed was serviceable, and she had a nice view of the outside through the bars of her window. She had changed out of her dress and wore her usual black and blue outfit, absent the sword. The cell door was made of an alloy of tungsten and dimeritium, and could keep nearly anything contained. It was overkill in her case, but then she was a small enough threat that she normally slept in a closed off wing of the palace above.

She’d had nothing to do these last few months, save to think on what had led her to this point. She and Anarietta had reconciled, of course, but that didn’t forgive her crimes and, as she’d learned tonight, didn’t mean she was off the hook from those who had held Dettlaff dear.

The time for her revenge had passed, and she’d spent enough time dwelling on her mistakes. She was a monster. Monsters didn’t live happily ever after.

Syanna heard a sharp cry of pain that quickly turned into a gurgle, then a thump. She stood up and looked out into the hall, through the bars. The guard who had been due to pass by her lay dead on the floor, his throat slit by a long, sharp claw. She stepped towards the back of her cell, as far as she could.

‘ _Maybe I shouldn’t have called her bluff so hard._ ’

Appearing out of the black and purple mist that swirled around the floor, Orianna stood just outside the cell, her fangs bared and claws extended. Her face had tightened and shriveled into a far more bestial visage. The vampire snarled at her and glared with reddened eyes.

“Prepare to die, spawn of the Black Sun! With your guts I shall paint my masterpiece!”

She should have been terrified. Rattled, at the very least. But Sylvia Anna had lost her fear of death a long time ago. Still, her heart did beat a little faster.

Orianna reared back and prepared to slice through the bars, but stopped suddenly as a burning rune was seared into her forehead. She screamed in more agony than Syanna thought possible, dropping to her knees. The various objects in her cell began to rattle in response to the shrieking that for all the world sounded like the wailing of the dead.

Somehow, despite the volume of Orianna’s screams, she clearly heard the footsteps of a man dressed in a yellow tunic with blue trousers, carrying two satchels slung across opposite shoulders, who approached from further down the hallway. He stared intensely at the vampire, and the rune on her forehead burned even hotter. Syanna watched with rapt attention.

“Go back whence you came,” the man commanded. “Or shall I tell your Elder what you’ve been up to? We go back a long way. I’m sure the punishment you’ll receive from them will be far worse than what you’re experiencing now.”

“Aaaaaaaah!”

“Now, now, I’ll end this just as soon as you agree to leave here and not return.”

“I promise!” Orianna screeched. “Make it stop!”

“As you wish.”

He waved his hand and the rune disappeared. Orianna turned to mist and fled down the hall, out of sight. Syanna watched her go in utter astonishment. The mysterious man dusted his hands and smiled at her.

“Who are you?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm, at your service,” he said, bowing extravagantly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you. How did you do that?”

“I have my ways. Honestly, I detest vampires. They’re immortal, sure, but they get a little taste of power and suddenly they think themselves invincible too. Sometimes you just have to put things in perspective for them.”

Syanna stared hard at him, moving closer to the bars and crossing her arms. “You’re clearly not human, and if you hate vampires that much you’re not one of them, either. Are you a mage?”

“Is a lion a house cat?”

“Then what are you?”

“Quite simply, I’m a granter of wishes.” He started to pace in front of her cell. “I’m known at times by other names, such as Master Mirror, or the Man of Glass.”

“So what do you want with me, Man of Glass?”

“I have the feeling you and I could do some very good business together,” said Gaunter O’Dimm. “Do you recall the young bandit you saved earlier tonight?”

She nodded.

“The whole affair was intended to fulfill her wish. That’s why she’s in your normal room now. You kept her from becoming unable to fulfill her end of the bargain she made with me, so I felt one good turn deserved another.”

“That’s why you saved me?”

“Indeed. That squares us, but it doesn’t have to mean the end of our business relationship, which I believe is just beginning.”

She stared at him. “You mean I can make a wish?”

“Of course. You can wish for whatever you want. There will be a contract to work out, certain provisions to take into account, but I can satisfy any desire.” He smiled. “You want to be the rightful Duchess? Done. There are a thousand ways to make that possible. Fitting revenge on anyone who ever wronged you? I can fulfill that far more effectively than any vampire. Tell me, Sylvia Anna, what is it you would wish for?”

Syanna shook her head. “I don’t want revenge. Not anymore. And I’ve come to accept that my sister is far more suited to ruling than I am. I don’t want either of those things.”

“Interesting. Then what do you want?”

“I was born under the Curse of the Black Sun,” she said evenly. “I wish to be free of it. To know for certain whether I became this way due to the curse, or if this is just who I am. Can you do such a thing?”

Gaunter O’Dimm clasped his hands together and grinned. “I can indeed. You’re aware, of course, that the curse may not exist?”

“If that is so then I also wish to know that. I’ll pay any price.”

“Funny you should mention that,” he said. “Normally I take payment in souls, but let’s make things interesting. I’ll let you choose what to sacrifice. Either you can stay here, become the rightful heir to the Duchy, but watch your sister die, or you can leave Toussaint and never be able to find your way back here. Which do you choose?”

“If you know so much about me, then surely you’re aware I wanted to kill my sister, yes?”

“That was before you so lovingly reconciled,” he replied, smirking. “Now you’ve had the opportunity to make up for so much lost time. She even let you attend the ball. I think she might be right on the cusp of bringing the rest of the court around on you. After all, it’s been weeks and your trial still hasn’t taken place.”

Syanna shrugged. “That’s all true. I don’t want her dead. But it sounds like whichever option I choose, I won’t get to see her ever again.”

“So then it becomes a question of what you truly value. Do you want her to live a long life, never able to find you and finish reconnecting with you? Or suffer an unfortunate death, after which you get to enjoy everything you were denied all your life?”

“It’s an impossible choice.”

“But one you must make if you wish to gain the knowledge you seek.”

She stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the floor. He drove a hard bargain. She had dealt with tricksters before, but none with the ability to send a higher vampire packing without the slightest show of effort. If he said he could give her that knowledge, he probably wasn’t lying. But the choice could not be meaningfully made unless she had that answer. Therein lay the trap.

“And this is the only payment? You mentioned you normally take souls.”

“Only for the big wishes. Fortunes restored, the dead come back to life, events rewritten in the timeline. You seek knowledge and the removal of a curse, and the price is proportionate to that desire. Were you to ask for more, I’d be demanding quite a different sacrifice.”

“Very well then. I’ve made my choice.”

“Do tell.”

“In the time I’ve been imprisoned here, I’ve come to realize that the things I wanted growing up aren’t worth having if I’ve no one to share them with. And I am not fit to lead. I only ever wanted the perks of being Duchess, never the responsibility. Besides, if I stay here, other vampires who were close to Dettlaff will come for me eventually. So send me away. I’ve already been banished once.”

“An interesting decision. Now we need only write it in blood.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Over the next few minutes, she drafted the blood contract, putting a few tricks and clauses of her own into it. She would leave Toussaint, but she would have one final day to set her affairs in order and decide where she wanted to go. Finally they both signed it, and Gaunter O’Dimm placed it in his satchel.

“It’s done. Until we meet again.”

He produced a wooden spoon, held it in front of him, and snapped it in half. Then he disappeared. Or rather, Syanna did. She blinked back into existence in the Gorgon Foothills, hitting the ground with a thud. After throwing up a couple of times, she leaned against a tree and looked up at the palace, probably for the last time.

Syanna sighed and shook her head. “I just know I’m going to regret that.”

She didn’t feel any differently than she had before. Her desires and convictions were unchanged. She had her answer.

Whistling, she stepped out into the night, a new plan beginning to form.

* * *

The room was beautiful. By no means extravagant, but it had a refinement to it that was difficult to find in most places. A large window overlooked Beauclair, and Ciri stared out of it while Mistle worked her way out of her dress. The city positively sparkled at night, with hundreds of lit windows dotting the landscape like a field of tiny stars.

In the distance, under the moonlight, she saw the highest tower of Tesham Mutna, the ruins that, for tonight at least, she and Mistle owned. At one point during the last week that they’d been in Toussaint waiting for the night of the ball, Geralt had taken her there. It was where he had killed the higher vampire Dettlaff, and where thousands of humans had suffered a long time ago. She could feel the evil radiating from the place, and her medallion didn’t stop vibrating until they were at least a quarter mile from the accursed ruins. Somehow that seemed fitting.

This wasn’t how she imagined tonight ending. But then nothing in her life ever went how she imagined it.

“Falka? Are you coming to bed?”

“Huh?” She started, then turned around and looked numbly at Mistle. “Of course.”

She stripped off the shirt and trousers she had borrowed for the duel, dropping them haphazardly on the floor. She mechanically climbed into the huge, ornate bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Mistle scooted next to her.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep already.”

Ciri stared at her in disbelief. “Have you paid no attention to what’s happened? I’m in no mood for that.”

“I don’t get why you’re so upset. The girl was clearly asking for it.”

“No she wasn’t. I’m the one who escalated things. I’m the one who challenged her.”

“Whatever. She still got what she deserved.”

Turning away from her, Ciri frowned, but didn’t cry. She didn’t have any tears left.

“Falka?”

“What?”

“What did Geralt mean by O’Dimm getting to you?”

Still not facing her, Ciri answered. “I had a conversation with him on the balcony after we separated. He said some things that got me wound up enough that when Rosa stepped in front of me all I wanted to do was fight.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Well I’d rather not talk either but you insist on lying there, so my idea’s out the window.”

She laughed darkly. “Gods, you’re horrible.”

“You love me.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Ciri still refused to look at her, staring out the window instead. Wishing she could just fly away.

 “You still haven’t told me why you’re all puffy-eyed about crippling some bitch,” Mistle said eventually. “You’ve killed scores of people and not lost a moment’s sleep.”

“All those times I was defending myself,” she insisted, finally turning around to face her. “Fighting for my life. Rosa var Attre was just being mean. But it’s more than that. It’s about what Gaunter O’Dimm said.”

“Don’t listen to him. None of it’s true.”

“No. He was right. I’m not a good person, Mistle. I just fooled myself into thinking I was because all the people I was fighting were worse. But tonight I was the monster.”

“Nonsense. You were incredible.”

She shook her head, then sat up.  “You saw how I taunted her. You saw how I dragged the fight out long past when it should have been over. You know who used to do that? Bonhart.”

Mistle was instantly at her side, staring hard into her eyes. “You are _nothing_ like him.”

“You only knew him for a few minutes before he killed you. I was his prisoner for weeks. He was cruel beyond anything you can imagine, and he liked to toy with people. And tonight I learned I’m capable of the same thing.”

She frowned. “Up until the moment I struck Rosa, I enjoyed tormenting her far more than I should have. I got lost in the rush of it all. Hitting her wasn’t what put me in that state. It was realizing what I’d become.”

“Falka, listen to me.”  Mistle placed her hands on her shoulders and maintained eye contact. “Just because you got a little carried away, does not make you like that monster. I only knew him for the time it took him to kill me, true, but I saw his eyes. They’re nothing like yours.”

She sniffled and closed her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know what it was all for. Did he really arrange all that? If so, why? Just to watch me suffer?”

“You mean it isn’t obvious?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if it were.”

“My exact words to Gaunter O’Dimm when I made my wish were: ‘I want you to bring me Falka, exactly as I left her.’ Now tell me, were you in particularly good spirits after I died?”

“Of course not. But that was a million times worse than how I feel now. The last time I felt this way was when I met you, not when you died.”

“And here I thought it was love at first sight.”

Ciri chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s not what I mean. Have I told you the full story of what happened in the Korath Desert?”

“No.”

“I was stranded, with nothing save the clothes on my back, and I had to forage to survive. After a while I found a unicorn, who helped me find food and water, as well as fight against some of the creatures that lived in the desert. Eventually he was injured, and I had no way to heal him without resorting to magic.”

“But I thought you couldn’t control your powers back then.”

“I didn’t even know I had them,” she said. “But Yennefer had been teaching me to draw on the Power, from various elemental sources. I was most familiar with water, and I was able to draw a little from the earth. I’d not attempted fire, but I got enough wood together, burned it, and drew from that.”

Ciri pulled her knees close to her, and stared at the bedsheets. Her voice quavered a bit as she trembled. “And I almost went completely insane.”

“What do you mean?”

“With the magic I drew from the fire, everything was suddenly possible. I was able to heal the unicorn easily. I also summoned a rainstorm. I was firing off spells left and right, spells I’d never even learned. It was exhilarating. I’d never felt so powerful. It was like I could do anything.”

She frowned and stared into the distance. At Tesham Mutna. “But the fire started to speak back to me. I saw visions of all my enemies burning, of me leading an army of unicorns and conquering the world. At first it seemed utterly appealing. But then I saw my friends burning too. Triss. Yennefer. Geralt. Everything consumed in fire.”

Shivering at the memory, she continued.

“I relinquished my connection to the Power, and just like that it was all over. Afterward I felt completely barren. When the trappers found me I wouldn’t even speak. I didn’t care about anything anymore. It got easier to bear over time, but it was slow going. By the time I made your acquaintance I felt exactly the way I do now.”

She frowned. “If I’m being completely honest, I felt the same thing during the duel as I did in front of that fire. Maybe that was O’Dimm’s plan the whole time.”

Mistle stroked her back. “It probably was. He gave me exactly what I wished for. Now you’re back, Falka. Really back.”

“I’ve been answering to that name this whole time, haven’t I?”

She nodded. “If you prefer Ciri that’s no issue. But to me you’ll always be my Falka.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said, lying back down. “I’m exhausted.”

Mistle moved behind her, wrapping her arms around her tight. Ciri groaned.

“I _told_ you, I’m not in the—“

“Oh, hush. Who said anything about sex?”


	9. First Interlude

The village of Unicorn had gained a small amount of notoriety during the Second Northern War. Located to the north of the Pereplut Swamp, near Dun Dâre, which itself had a foreboding legend surrounding it from around the same time, the village was named for a statue of a unicorn contained within a stone shrine. At first the statue was gold, but was stolen, so the locals replaced it with silver, only for it to be stolen again. This continued with materials of gradually decreasing value until finally the unicorn had been made of straw.

During the war, the village had played host to a meeting between several unsavory characters who were later named traitors to the Empire, though most of them did not live long enough to hear that declaration. The one thing all the various versions of the tale agreed on was the presence of an ashen-haired young woman who was brought there wearing a collar and a leash, and escaped later on a black mare, horribly scarred, before vanishing completely. Around the same time, the entire sky turned red, visible from both the Empire and the Northern Realms.

The five bandits standing on the edge of the village at night were not aware of the legend. But they were about to inspire another one.

“Right,” said Horace, stretching out his bowstring and looking at his companions. Sheana, Faloanthír, go round up everyone at the inn. Stephanos, hang back here with me in case we need you, but don’t go chomping throats just yet. Resilda, start burning.”

Resilda Trevohort nodded, her horribly disfigured face just barely visible under her hood. She walked with Sheana and Faloanthír towards the inn. Horace drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, but didn’t ready his bow. Not yet.

The wheat-colored hair atop Sheana’s head glistened silver in the moonlight, while Faloanthír’s raven black hair, typical of elves, blended into the night around them. Their heads were the only things truly visible once they got a certain distance away.

“You sure about this?” Stephanos asked from beside him. “Mistle told us we shouldn’t raid settlements. Only travelers and caravans. Something this brazen attracts attention.”

“Mistle isn’t here,” he replied. “And we’re not making enough by catching the odd traveler. Caravans are too well guarded now that the war’s over. But a small village like this? It’s perfect.”

“I still say it’s too risky.”

“How risky can it be with you here? We’ve chased off plenty of bounty hunters together, it’ll be no different this time. You’ll see.”

Stephanos shook his head. “I’m not worried about bounty hunters.”

“Are you scared of witchers? There’s no contract on you, and besides, witchers live up north. They don’t come down to Ebbing.”

“What about that woman? The one Mistle left with? She’s a witcher.”

“So what? It’s not like she has any interest in killing you. You could probably handle her even if she did.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“You’re worrying over nothing. If anyone does come after us for this, we’ll either frighten them off or kill them. Just like always.”

Stephanos frowned and went back to silently observing the rest of their group. By now they had reached the inn. Sheana and Faloanthír stood near the door while Resilda stood further back, by two lit torches that were stuck into the ground and were currently burning just hot enough to provide a modicum of light.

In the orange glow, her black hair glistened, and the reflected flames danced within her pupils. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply before slowly raising her arms. As she did, the flames rose as well, then spewed forth in twin streams, hitting the houses to the left and right of the inn.  People came running out, right into the waiting embrace of the other two Rats.

“Showtime,” said Horace, moving forward with his bow drawn. Stephanos sighed and drew his sword, moving closer to the center of the conflagration.

The people were mostly assorted travelers, none of them fighting men. That proved slightly disappointing for Horace, who had hoped to shock the crowd by cutting someone down with an arrow through their neck. If any of them got pushy, he might just do it anyway. Make a spectacle of it.

Resilda did most of the work containing them, hurling her flames menacingly and corralling them in the center of the village, where the rest of the Rats surrounded them. This would be much more effective on horseback, but they’d lost their horses to a particularly zealous group of pursuing guards about three days after Mistle and the witcher girl had left. There would be hell to pay, he knew, but Horace pushed that thought to the back of his mind and did his best to be intimidating anyway.

Besides, there were plenty of horses they could steal here.

“Alright people, listen up!” he shouted. “You are now at the mercy of the Rats! Please hand over all coin purses, jewelry, and other assorted valuables! If you cooperate, you will leave here alive and unscathed. If not…”

The flames flared higher, and the looks of fear intensified on the faces of the crowd.

“Horace!” yelled Sheana. “We got a couple stragglers! Still inside the inn!”

He smiled darkly. Finally, someone to use as an example.

“Burn them out!”

Resilda obeyed, launching a ball of flame at the doorway to the inn. It hurtled at terrifying speed, ready to immolate the establishment and reduce it to cinders.

“ _Gvella Glan!”_

As if from nowhere, a mighty wind appeared and surged forward, smiting the fireball and scattering all the other flames in the process. Resilda was blown back, landing roughly a few feet away. The night sky invaded the earth, and in seconds the settlement was lit only by the moon, and by the crackling electric energy surrounding the arms of the woman who stepped out of the doorway to the inn.

To her right stood a man with eyes that shone yellow even in the darkness, like the eyes of a cat. Horace could not make out most of his features from here, but he was clad in a dark black coat, and wore two swords on his back.

“I was having a nice evening,” the man said, stepping forward through the crowd. “I’ve been on the road for a long time, and I was really looking forward to spending some quality time with my lady friend here. So you’ve caught me in an especially bad mood. I’m giving you until the count of ten to turn around and fuck off.”

“And what if we don’t?” asked Sheana, brandishing her sword. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He removed the sword from its sheath. It slid out silently, but in the quiet that followed Horace could hear it slicing through the air. The only blade he’d seen of similar quality was the one that Sheana and Faloanthír stole from that witcher girl. He now felt a lot less confident.

Stephanos had completely dropped his sword and was already raising his hands. There was a lethality to the man’s gaze that made all of them think twice about challenging him. He lowered his bow.

“Ten. What’s it gonna be?”

Horace didn’t get to answer, because at that moment Resilda Trevohort regained consciousness, and lashed out with savage fury. Growling a guttural incantation, she summoned fire from the air and launched it forward, towards the crowd.

The man moved faster than any of them thought possible, positioning himself between the flames and the crowd, and formed a complicated sign with his fingers. A wave of force clashed with the flames, snuffing them instantly. Now that he was closer, in the glint of the moonlight, Horace could see that around his neck the man wore a medallion in the shape of a wolf’s head.

“Run, people!” the woman was shouting. “Seek shelter! We will deal with these bandits!”

They obeyed, while the Rats stood there, impotently.

“Don’t gotta make it sound so heroic, babe!”

“I’ve been a villain in enough stories that I deserve to indulge in a little heroism.”

“Fair enough.”

“That does it!” shouted Horace, a newfound fury rising from within him. “Rats! Attack!”

The woman’s face twisted into an expression of disgust. “Rats? Really? I despise rats.”

No clever reply came, because he had already fired an arrow directly at the man with the sword, whom he assumed was the bigger threat. The man whirled with the same impossible speed, deflecting the projectile with unerring accuracy.

He was after him in a second, and Horace had to leap sideways to avoid being skewered on his blade. By this time Faloanthír had made his way behind him, while Sheana approached from the side. Their attack gave Horace time to draw his sword, but didn’t even inconvenience the Witcher, who ducked under one attack and parried the other, forming a sign with his hand and launching Faloanthír ten feet away, where he tumbled head over heels.

Meanwhile Resilda gave attacking the woman another go, sending a torrent of fire her way. The woman waved her hand dismissively and redirected the flames back at their caster, who fell to the ground and began rolling around. She was in no danger of burning to death, and the flames went out quickly, but she quickly realized that fighting a sorceress this powerful was a practically suicidal idea.

“No one’s ever trained you, have they?” she taunted, moving closer. “If I had to guess, those powers of yours developed during a time of great stress, probably one of the wars. The scar would suggest that, and it would explain why no one was available to recruit you into a magic school. Mages had other priorities at the time, I’m sorry to say.”

“Keira! Less talking, more grinding this scum into the dirt!”

“Not every problem must be resolved with violence, Lambert.”

“This one does!”

He was currently fending off blows from all three of them, which made the fact that he was able to hold a conversation all the more impressive. In fairness, they weren’t even coming close to touching him. Horace got the impression that if he wasn’t distracted by the woman, he could have ended this fight far earlier.

Deflecting a blow from Faloanthír, he kicked Sheana in the stomach as she came up from behind him, then twirled around the elf and shoved him towards her extended blade. She managed to point it away from him just in time, but he still tumbled into her and sent both of them crashing to the ground. Horace charged at him with his sword held high, then switched his angle of attack at the last second, striking from below instead.

The witcher known as Lambert saw through the feint and hopped back, then surged forward with incredible speed and slashed at Horace’s neck, missing him by an inch. He stumbled backwards, then fell to the ground.

Stephanos still hadn’t moved.

“Any time now!”

That snapped Stephanos out of his reverie, and he looked around him before clutching a wolf’s fang that he wore around his neck. He cut his finger on the fang, and his body began to morph, glowing with strange red energy. That got the Witcher’s attention off the rest of them for the moment.

“Well, well,” he remarked. “Guess I’m gonna have a better night than I thought!”

Stephanos leaped into the air and crashed down like a meteor, slashing at Lambert with enormous claws. He was already well out of the way, twirling behind him. The werewolf swung in a wide, sweeping arc, but the Witcher rolled underneath it with inhuman speed.

Continuing his offensive, Stephanos lashed out with a bite. Lambert casually leaned to the side to avoid it, then pirouetted away from the next slash. As he did so, he sheathed his sword and drew the other, which shone brightly under the moonlight. This barely registered with the werewolf, who leaped after him with mouth open and claws extended.

It was too dark for Horace to see what happened next, but there was a spray of blood, and Stephanos tumbled to the ground. He got up a moment later, visibly weakened.

“Silver hurts, doesn’t it? You’re lucky I didn’t have time to rub wolfsbane on this thing.”

He didn’t reply, clutching a hand over his chest, where the wound was deepest.

“Go!” he shouted to the rest of them. “Flee! I will hold them off as long as I can!”

“Like hell!” Sheana yelled. “I’m coming, Stephanos!”

“No you’re not!” said Horace, who by now saw very clearly which way the wind was blowing. “Rats! Retreat!”

They began to scatter in four different directions, but about twenty feet out, their limbs began to grow heavy and soon none of them could move.

“Aren’t you forgetting about somebody?”

All of them turned to see Keira restraining them with magic. She maintained the spell effortlessly, making it even more clear that she far outclassed Resilda in both power and technique. It was then they started to realize that they weren’t going to get away.

Suddenly, Horace heard a pair of hands clap twice.

He looked around. Everything was standing completely still, and the people around him were frozen like statues. From the corner of his eye, he spied a man who hadn’t been there before, dressed in yellow and blue.

“Well, this is a fine pickle you’ve found yourself in,” said the man. “Normally I would leave you to your fate, but according to the contract your leader signed, I decide where and when you meet your end. And it isn’t here and now, for I still have a use for you.”

“Who are you?”

“A humble vagrant,” he replied. “Once a merchant of mirrors. My name is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“What’s happening?”

“Oh, this? Just a bit of time manipulation. It gives us the opportunity to chat. In a moment, you’ll all find yourselves far from here, where I suggest you wait for your leader to return. She and I have some unfinished business.”

“But what—”

Gaunter O’Dimm clapped his hands again, and the next time Horace opened his eyes, he was miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing something a bit different with today's update. Instead of posting a single chapter, I'll be posting three short interludes that don't quite fit together with each other, but which all have an impact on the story going forward. We haven't seen Mistle's new gang since the first chapter, but they'll have a major role to play in the upcoming arc.


	10. Second Interlude

It wasn’t often that he dreamed of the Djinn, but when he did, Dandelion knew to pay attention. His unconscious mind would drift down a stream that morphed into a familiar river bed, slowly at first, and then so suddenly it was as if it had always been there. The seal was in his hands, the incomprehensible being loomed before him, and he found himself wanting to make a wish.

But he couldn’t speak.

Now was the part where a certain witcher would intervene, grabbing the seal from his unconscious body and utter what he thought was a sacred incantation, but which more accurately translated to “begone, and go plough yourself.”

And sure enough, the phrase lanced through the air, catching the Djinn off guard and causing it to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. But it wasn’t Geralt who said it.

The hair was similar. But everything else was wrong. Instead of the lithe, manly form of his best friend standing over him, there was a decidedly more feminine figure, with green eyes, a scar on her left cheek, and a sword slung across her back. And a pair of arcane runes branded into her left temple. That part was new.

Freed from the memory, Dandelion stood up. “Ciri? What are you doing here? You’re not born yet.”

“And yet here I am. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you. You saved me.”

“I didn’t. Like you said, I wasn’t born when this happened.”

“Then why are you here? Why am I seeing you now?”

“Do you really expect me to have the answer to that? You’re essentially talking to yourself.”

Dandelion rubbed his eyes. “Right. Why am I having a dream about you in the first place? These only ever happened to Geralt. And before you say anything clever, I’m fully aware that I’m asking myself that question.”

“Good, that means you’re all caught up.”

“Can I wake up, then?”

“That’s up to you. Odd dreams usually mean something. It might be worth staying to find out what.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me?”

Ciri raised an eyebrow and inclined her head forward, staring him down with her green eyes.

“I didn’t think so.”

“You’re the poet. You figure out the symbolism.”

“What symbolism? I got ten seconds of a memory of a time in my life when I was unconscious and dying for two whole days! What am I supposed to glean from that? The only thing different is that you’re here instead of Geralt!”

“Yes, that is quite the headscratcher.”

Furrowing his brow, Dandelion brought a finger to his chin and started pacing. “There’s three things that stand out from that adventure. One, it was when Geralt first met Yennefer. Two, Geralt was the one who got the wishes instead of me. And three… I lost my voice.”

He stopped, then turned to face her again. “If you’re standing in for Geralt, that means you’re involved in something similar. You’re trying to help a friend out of a bad situation, one probably involving wishes. And Yennefer has something to do with it, so I should start by finding her.”

“Or you had too much to eat before bed.”

“I’ll have you know I’m strictly rationing the food on this trip! I’m on the road for the first time in a while and I don’t want to delay the journey for the sake of a fuller stomach. It’s important that Priscilla and I get to where we’re going on time.”

“I know all that. I’m literally in your head.”

“Then why ask?”

Ciri shrugged.

“Whatever. You’re probably right. This is just a silly dream. I’d like to wake up now.”

“Go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”

Dandelion grumbled, but ultimately found it impossible to remain in a foul mood.

“Even though you’re not really here, it is nice to see you again,” he said. “I’ll have to catch up with you for real sometime.”

“You should tend to Priscilla first,” she said. “Such an awful thing, losing her singing voice like that. That is why you’re on this trip, isn’t it?”

“Again, why are you asking if you’re me?”

“Technically you’re asking yourself.”

“Touché.”

“You are right, though,” she continued. “This isn’t a normal dream. For one thing you’re fully aware of it. And for another…”

“What?”

“When you think about it, dreams aren’t any less real just because they all take place inside our heads. They exist in their own little worlds. Worlds that can sometimes… cross over. Like the conjunction of spheres, but on a smaller scale. Even though I’m not real, that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. Or that I don’t represent some aspect of the real Ciri.”

Dandelion rubbed his temples, trying to wrap his head around a concept that had to have originated somewhere within his own skull. “Is that how Geralt was able to see you in his dreams?”

“Possibly.”

“But he always described those as little windows into whatever was happening in your life at that time. He never spoke with you. And besides, he’s bound to you by destiny.”

“And you’re not? At this point almost everyone I hold dear is tied to me in some way. Like some kind of grand tapestry.”

“I guess I just don’t understand any of this.”

“I don’t think you’re meant to. At least not yet. But that’s the thing about the future. If you wait around long enough, it’ll happen.”

“What do I do now?”

Ciri smiled. “You already know. Trust yourself.”

Before he could say another word, he woke up.

* * *

 

Dandelion’s eyes shot open and saw only stars, partly obscured by the trees around their campsite. Zoltan was snoring a few paces over, and a couple of other dwarves kept watch at the fringes. For now, he was alone.

The body next to him stirred and moaned, and opened her eyes. “Dandelion?” she rasped out. “What happened?”

“Nothing, my darling Callonetta,” he said with greater bravery than he really felt. “It was just a dream.” He placed an arm around her shoulder and stroked her arm, lulling her back to sleep.

“Just a dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One reader has been demanding Dandelion, so here you go. We'll be seeing more of him later.


	11. Third Interlude

Tir ná Lia did not sparkle at night so much as faintly glimmer, glowing humbly and serenely, in harmony with the world surrounding it. Elven cities were made with the intent of achieving a state of equilibrium with the surrounding environment, blending together with nature so that, over the eons, it became impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

An Elven Sage in meditation likewise sought harmony with their surroundings, often staying perfectly still for days at a time. Given the opportunity, many of the Aen Saevherne would go on for ages about how time was meaningless, how time was an illusion, how they had all the time in the world.

But Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha, or Avallac’h as he preferred to be called, no longer believed that.

Time was everything. Is everything. Will be everything. It erodes the most mighty of empires, witnesses the birth and death of civilizations, allows length, width, and height to exist in motion instead of languishing in only three dimensions. A single moment in time can take on the most astonishing importance. It just has to be the right one.

To say that time is meaningless is to, in some small way, assert one’s own importance. To seek comfort in thinking that one is beyond the slow decay that awaits all things. But time doesn’t care. Time keeps moving no matter what.

These musings on temporality served to induce the meditative trance required for the ritual Avallac’h was performing, and after several hours the veil parted, and he saw beyond.

A swallow hovered in the void, frozen in time, reflected between two looking glasses. The image repeated itself ad infinitum, forming an endless hallway of mirrors. Then mirrors appeared on the sides, then above and below. The image appeared, again and again, out to the edges of perception.

Then the mirrors shattered.

Now freed from their confines, the infinite swallows hovered, still frozen, stretching out further than any eye could see. A green light emanated from each of them, and they began to rush towards a central point, combining with the original in a brilliant and dazzling display.

Eventually, only one swallow remained. It was transparent, made of perfect, crystal clear glass. Time began to flow again, and the swallow fell, shattering out into infinity.

The vision ended, and Avallac’h reeled back as if struck. He regained his composure, and attempted to enter the vision again. But the veil remained closed. He had seen all he was permitted to see.

“Zirael,” he muttered, suddenly out of breath. “What does he have planned for you?”

Pulling himself slowly up off the floor, Avallac’h steadied himself on the wall before sitting down in a nearby chair. While he recovered, he pondered the meaning of the vision, but found little beyond what he had already pieced together.

Zirael. A singularity. And the Man of Glass.

A new energy filled him, and he stood with purpose as more of the future was revealed to him.

“She will be here soon,” he said. “I must prepare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the last one. Next week we return to Toussaint to find out just how Ciri's going to recover from this whole fiasco.


	12. An Avenger Born of Tainted Blood

Triss arrived at the Corvo Bianco vineyard just after dawn. Sleeping had proved nearly impossible the night before, as nice as the inn where she stayed had been. As it was, she’d only managed to get in a couple of hours. She did not let that deter her as she walked forward and knocked on the door.

A bald man wearing spectacles with darkened lenses answered the door, his face the very picture of decorum.

“Greetings. I am majordomo Barnabas Basil-Foulty, at your service. May I have your name?”

“Triss Merigold,” she replied. “I’m expected.”

“Yes, Lady Yennefer did mention you’d be dropping by. Though not at this hour.”

“At least I waited until it was light out.”

“Touché . You are welcome to wait inside.”

She stepped in, admiring the coziness of the abode. Geralt had clearly sunk a lot of money and passion into the house, even more so than his quarters at Kaer Morhen. He really had settled down. She allowed herself a single wistful sigh, then put the thought behind her. There was no changing the past.

She sat down at the long table in the center of the main room. The majordomo brought her tea, then returned to standing vigil in the corner. By the time Geralt and Yennefer finally emerged from the bedroom, she had gone through three cups of the stuff.

“Good morning.”

Yennefer smiled and moved over to greet her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Not at all. You clearly did.”

“One could say that. Geralt, put on a shirt.”

He grunted and returned to the bedroom to do as she commanded.

“Not much point to that, is there? Nothing we haven’t both seen.”

“It’s more to do with keeping him somewhat civilized.”

Triss laughed, and they both sat down across from each other. The majordomo returned with more tea for both of them, and set one out for Geralt, who returned a moment later having put on the requested shirt.

“Good morning, Triss.”

“Good morning.”

“What brings you here?”

“A few things,” she said. “Thank you for clearing the air with me last night, both of you. When it comes to helping Ciri you know I’m always on board.”

“Of course.”

“When I couldn’t sleep last night, I decided to do some reading. Mostly into occult sources, obscure incidents, folk legends, that sort of thing. Philippa told me about a Professor Shakeslock at Oxenfurt Academy who specialized in the occult, but he’s dead. Luckily a friend of mine in Kovir had been corresponding with him, so I called him up via megascope and he told me—”

“Slow down,” said Geralt. “Are you looking into Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m sure there’s something I can find that’ll help Ciri.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he insisted. “I met Professor Shakeslock. He’d gone blind researching Gaunter O’Dimm, and attracted his attention in the process. O’Dimm drew a magic circle on his floor and told him he’d be safe as long as he didn’t step out of it. As soon as I was done talking to him the ceiling collapsed, and he tripped on a bottle and broke his neck.”

“I appreciate you wanting to protect me,” Triss said in a way that made it clear she didn’t. “But I’ll be fine. Although I suppose this means you already know more than I do.”

He nodded. “The only way to defeat Gaunter O’Dimm is to play him at his own game and win. That’s Ciri’s only chance.”

“And you’re okay with her taking that risk?”

“I have no choice.”

“That’s what you always say when you’ve already made one.”

“Triss,” Yennefer interjected. “Believe me, I want to help Ciri just as much as you do, but Geralt has firsthand knowledge of this. Gaunter O’Dimm is far too powerful to take on by any conventional means.”

“I’ve been considering that,” she said. “As well as his interest in Ciri.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it. He goes wherever he wants, wields unimaginable power, and knows things he clearly shouldn’t. Does that remind you of anybody?”

Geralt and Yennefer said nothing, but the looks on their faces showed that they understood. She continued.

“What if, and stay with me on this, Gaunter O’Dimm has something to do with the Elder Blood?”

“But we already know how the Elder Blood came about,” said Yennefer. “The Elven Sages of the Aen Elle ran a selective breeding program that eventually resulted in Lara Dorren, the first Source. From there it was passed down along her descendants, until finally it awoke in Ciri.”

“And do you remember what happened to Lara Dorren? She ran off with a human mage and got pregnant, but the elves and the humans both disapproved. Cregennan of Lod was murdered, and Lara Dorren died giving birth on a hill. Then there was the whole incident with Falka mixing her bastard in with Riannon’s children, saying an avenger would be born of her cursed blood while she burned at the stake. The rampant incest among the inheritors of the Lara Gene practically guaranteed that.”

Geralt squinted, trying to follow along. “What are you saying, Triss?”

“The story of the Elder Blood, and that of all its descendants, is one of madness, misery, and a powerful curse. It all started with two people from different races who just wanted to be together, and then everything went catastrophically wrong. That has Gaunter O’Dimm’s signature written all over it.”

“You did say he was able to stop time at will,” Yennefer reminded him. “And Triss is right. Ciri’s gift of prophecy is awfully similar to his particularly cutting insights.”

“When we were training Ciri at Kaer Morhen,” said Triss, “I connected with her mind while she was in a trance to see if I could figure out who was speaking through her. Whoever it was spoke back, calling me the Fourteenth of the Hill. I tried to chase him, but he told me I’d mistaken the stars reflecting on the water’s surface at night for the heavens.”

“That’s what Vilgefortz used to say.”

“Which is why I’ve always figured that had something to do with him. But when we met him at the ball, Gaunter O’Dimm called me the Fourteenth of the Hill as well. And one of his aliases is Master Mirror. I don’t think the metaphor was a coincidence.”

“Seek salvation in glass that can’t be broken,” Geralt muttered, not looking at them.

“What?”

“A piece of advice I heard from two beings that had been summoned to serve Iris von Everec,” he explained. “Ciri was talking about how her ability to travel through paintings was probably made possible because of Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure. But you’re right; a mirror isn’t the only thing that holds a reflection.”

Yennefer leaned forward. “So you’re saying he somehow added a dose of his own powers to the Lara Gene?”

“The Aen Elle didn’t have a single success before her,” said Triss. “I’d be curious to see what Avallac’h thinks of it. He was set to marry Lara Dorren before everything went wrong.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Geralt. “Besides, what difference does any of this make?”

“If Ciri shares some of his powers, that might give her a chance at defeating him,” said Yennefer. “I assume that’s the ultimate destination of this train of thought?”

Triss nodded. “Exactly. A slim chance, but better than none.”

He sat there, arms crossed, for several moments. “None of this is going to mean anything if we’re wrong. We put that kind of idea in her head now, it could get her in even more trouble down the line.”

“Which is why I’m bringing it to you first,” said Triss. “Though she is the only one who knows how to find Avallac’h.”

“Already said I’m not interested in bringing him into this. But since we both know that’s not going to stop you, you could try the caves under Mount Gorgon. Tir ná Béa Arainne cemetery is there. That’s where I first met him, and where Lara Dorren is buried.”

“I doubt he lives there,” said Yennefer. “And we can’t simply wait for him to visit.”

“There’s no ‘we’ on this. I’ll find my own way to help Ciri.”

“It better not involve coming back out of retirement for one last adventure. You’re liable to die of irony.”

“I hadn’t planned on that. Accepted a while ago that she can look after herself. But I can’t do nothing.”

“Neither can I,” said Triss. “Which is why I’m going to keep looking into this even if neither of you will.”

“Triss, if Gaunter O’Dimm learns you’re taking an interest in him, you could end up worse than dead. If you’d seen how Professor Shakeslock looked by the time I found him…”

“I don’t care, Geralt. If it ends up helping Ciri, it’s worth any risk.”

“Well we can hardly stop you,” said Yennefer. “But while we’re on the subject, I could consult Ida and Francesca. The Aen Seidhe know plenty about the Elder Blood as well, and Francesca had a direct hand in cultivating it here in our world.” She frowned and looked away. “As did I.”

Geralt looked at her skeptically. “Sure they’ll even let you into Dol Blathanna?”

“There’s no need. I can call them up using my megascope. Of course, if you’re dying to go there…”

“I’m not. You know how I feel about portals.”

“You do have a point, though. They have a wonderful library I could make use of.”

“Let’s just try the megascope first.”

“Alright, then. And what’s your brilliant plan?”

“If anyone’s old enough to remember something about Gaunter O’Dimm that’s been lost to history other than the elves, it’s the vampires,” he said. “Regis is gone, but I could talk to Orianna. I might be able to get something from her.”

“Or die as soon as she sees you. Don’t forget that you’re the one who killed Dettlaff.”

“It’s not a perfect plan, but…”

“It’s not a plan at all,” said Triss. “You barely managed to kill one higher vampire. You’d be walking right to the slaughter.”

Geralt sighed. “You’re right. It’s a bad idea. Not like she’d be able to tell me anything I don’t already know.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Yennefer. “Ciri should be by later to pick up her things. We can discuss it with her then.”

“Sure that’s a good idea? Like I said, none of us have enough evidence to stand behind this theory yet. I don’t like keeping things from her, but—“

“Then don’t. She’s an adult now. Enough misery has come of trying to shelter her.”

“Yenna’s right. She deserves to know.”

He smiled faintly and raised his mug to his lips. “Guess I’ve been outvoted then.”

Breakfast was served, and they continued conversing well into the morning.

* * *

The San Sebastian district was where the less slightly elements of Beauclair’s society lived and plied their trade. One could hardly call it a slum, however, especially when compared to cities like Novigrad. The people here were lower class, but hardly poor. The city wasn’t free of beggars, but there was none of the disease and filth that seemed endemic to cities in general. The Duchess’ generosity was clearly felt even in the less luxurious sections of her domain.

Which wasn’t to say that Philippa Eilhart didn’t watch her step. Although, she considered, at least here in the land of fairy tales the criminals were a little more straightforward about things.

None bothered her on her way to her destination, and she knew how to avoid being followed. She arrived at the house with the green door that they had designated as the meeting spot, and waited. She always arrived early to these meetings, since it gave her time to inspect the premises and place magical wards. After ensuring that they could not be spied upon by magic or mundane means, she sat at a table set up in the center of the room and waited.

Morvran Voorhis arrived exactly on time, alone as requested. Neither of them had made any effort to disguise themselves, since that would be pointless. There was no war on, and they were both in friendly territory. Nobody followed them, because nobody had any reason to be interested.  Philippa had always found that it was best to scheme during peacetime.

Besides which, spies had never operated in Toussaint, for the same reason the Empire didn’t impose its authority over the region. Toussaint was considered unimportant in the affairs of the larger Empire, populated as it was with fairy tale dreamers and besotted drunks in equal measure. The attempted coup against Emhyr var Emreis had been plotted there for precisely that reason. None overheard that meeting save a certain witcher, and he was otherwise occupied this morning. She’d checked.

Regardless, she knew they were safe from prying ears. And so the meeting began.

“Good day, Sorceress.”

“Good day, General.”

He sat down in the chair across from her.

“I’ll begin by thanking you for taking the time to meet with me. A formality, I know, but a genuine sentiment nonetheless. The matter I bring to you is of the utmost importance.”

“I eagerly await your explanation.”

“Let’s start with the obvious. Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon is alive. We both saw the duel. We both know that woman’s name isn’t really Falka. It’s vital that the Emperor doesn’t learn this. He’s only just starting to move on and focus on issues that truly matter.”

“Cirilla has never been unimportant,” he said. “Even if His Imperial Majesty no longer plans to abdicate, he will one day need a successor.”

“From what I’ve heard, that successor may very well be you. You stand to benefit from keeping this concealed.”

“I also stand to lose my head should it come to light.”

“As do I, but I act in the Emperor’s best interests, even if he’d like to think he knows better. His obsession with Ciri ravaged the North and threw the world into disarray. I’ll not let him keep heading down that path.”

“And yet you requested a unit from my division. Why, if not to capture her and bring her back?”

“That’s never worked out for anybody. She always manages to slip out of everybody’s fingers like so much sand. No, I need them for another purpose, though one still related to Ciri.”

Voorhis had begun this meeting apprehensive, but now looked intrigued. He narrowed his eyes with interest and nodded for her to continue.

“As I told you, a gang calling themselves The Rats is currently marauding somewhere in Ebbing. I have it on good intelligence that Ciri has fallen back in with them for some unknown reason. I wish to steer her away from this course, and the only way I can see is to remove them from the board. It’s for her own good.”

“How so?”

“Becoming a witcher I can accept, even if it does seem a waste of her potential. But I’ll not stand idly by while she falls back into banditry.”

“If I may be so bold, why involve me and my soldiers at all? Why not the Lodge of Sorceresses?”

“The Lodge contains too many who would object to such a plan, and I haven’t the time nor the inclination to convince them.”

“Even so, there are plenty of mercenary groups that specialize in such clandestine jobs, who don’t report directly to His Imperial Majesty. Why not hire one of them?”

“Because that is precisely where Stefan Skellen went wrong. On top of telling Leo Bonhart to kill the girl rather than take her alive as ordered, he failed to foresee the obvious. Bonhart was a free agent, and he used Ciri for his own ends after figuring out she was worth far more than the price he was originally promised. I wish to eliminate that sort of wild card factor.”

“In that case, I believe I have precisely the unit you require,” he said, setting a long leather tube on the table and removing its contents. He unrolled the papers and placed them before her. “Onyx Squadron.”

She skimmed through the papers in front of her, growing increasingly intrigued the more she read. “An elite unit, extensive training, all missions undertaken with no backup and complete disavowal if captured by the enemy. Impressive.”

“They participated in many clandestine combat operations during the last war,” he said. “The details of which are contained in the papers before you.”

“Rest assured, I shall familiarize myself with them later. For now, tell me about the members. Their skills, strengths and weaknesses, et cetera.”

“Of course. There are five members in total, each with their own specialty.”

“Only five? Hardly sufficient, don’t you think?”

“Some situations call for a scalpel instead of a sword. A small group of elite, talented individuals can sometimes do the work of an army. There was a sixth member, but he has been missing for over two years and is presumed dead.”

“Very well. Tell me about them.”

“The first is Rosalind Vassay. An archer whose skill is eclipsed only by dryads, and even then just barely. They say she once pinned a housefly to a tree from a hundred yards, without killing it. But she is capable of more lethal shots should the situation require it.”

“Almost certainly false, but she must be precise nonetheless to have inspired such legends. I admire that. Next?”

“Daxyl Renard, a master tactician. He’s used his talents for everything from operational planning to assassinations. He works well in small groups and is adept at planning traps and ambushes, but his true gift is making it appear as though the target’s death was the result of an unfortunate accident. One time he arranged it so a chandelier fell on a target in the middle of a royal ball. No one knows how, but all he asked for was to see the guest list beforehand.”

“There are several spells that enable precognition, though not usually to that degree.”

“Reports say he has no magical talent. He simply sees patterns where others do not. He’s also very adept at setting traps.”

“Interesting.”

“The third is Emelie Carnot. An expert in knives and daggers, as well as heights and tight spaces. She was a circus performer for a short time after running away from home, but ended up falling in with criminals. Her final theft was so audacious and well executed that she was recruited instead of hanged.”

“Who made that decision?”

“I did. I was the one from whom she tried to steal.”

She sat up a little straighter, not even bothering to hide her surprise.

“Any doubts about her loyalty?”

“None. She understands perfectly well how fortunate she is. Also, it was four years ago. She’s since seen the light.”

“Good.”

“Second to last, we have Bruno Flaxhammer. He’s actually a Nordling, and claims to have giant’s blood that he inherited from a distant ancestor. Whether or not this is true, it cannot be denied that he is very large and possesses incredible strength. He fistfights trolls on occasion, and usually wins.”

“Where in the North does he hail from?”

“Kaedwen. He was a strongman in the same circus where Emelie performed. She was the one who convinced him to join. Apparently the two are lovers.”

“Does that interfere with their ability to do the job?”

“Not in the least. I dare say it enhances it.”

“Very well. Who is the final member?”

“The leader, Amandine. Several years ago, an emissary from Zerrikania visited His Imperial Majesty in the Royal Court and presented her as a gift. She is exceptionally tall, head shaved bald, with skin dark as midnight. Her swordsmanship is impeccable, and she’s a devilish hand to hand combatant. I’ve not seen her style in person, but it’s said she’s found some way of combining the two. She is the most dangerous member of the group, and the most fervently loyal. Very honor bound, Zerrikanians.”

“Sounds like a fine group. Deploy them to Ebbing at once.”

“I will. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Cirilla was once promised to me in marriage. I trust that will be honored when your plans for the girl come to fruition.”

“I can no more control whom Ciri chooses to marry than I can control the rising of the Sun. But you will get the chance to make the offer to her yourself.”

“I suppose that is all I can ask for.”

They stood, and shook to seal the arrangement.

“Very well. Let’s keep each other updated.”

“Good day, Sorceress.”

“Good day, General.”

* * *

Beauclair was not a city where one could stay miserable for long, even if that was what they planned on doing. The bright, sunlit avenues, the cheerful merchants, and the general sense of energy from the surrounding populace were infectious to the point where Ciri had almost entirely forgotten the way she felt last night. The guilt that resulted from that led her into an even darker mood that the city then proceeded to lift her out of, and this cycle continued until the point where she clutched her hair with both hands and let out a muffled scream.

Mistle turned and regarded her with curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

“This place is too bloody cheerful.”

“Tell me about it. Good seafood, though.”

Her companion didn’t seem at all perturbed by anything that had transpired. Though she had been in a state of shock the previous evening, Ciri hadn’t missed what the others had said about Mistle, and found their admonitions difficult to refute. She could be insensitive, rude, and displayed almost no empathy. She was a bandit, a child of contempt, the girl you didn’t bring home to your parents.

But their judgment of her came from an outside point of view. They didn’t know Mistle like she did. Mistle never treated her the way she treated just about everybody else. With her, Mistle was kind. She was gentle, even compassionate. She genuinely listened to Ciri and valued her opinions. And she defended her fiercely. That was why Ciri loved her. Mistle could be terrible to nearly everyone else, but she was kind to her. It made her feel special.

Besides, it wasn’t like Yennefer could claim she hadn’t been every bit as nasty at times.

They had changed out of the dresses from the night before, into their usual travelling clothes. Compared to the rich silks and expensive jewelry of those around them, they cut a decidedly more roguish figure, but she didn’t spy a single upturned nose in the crowd around them. Most simply went about their business, unconcerned with how they looked. The Duchess was right; word about what happened last night hadn’t spread, at least not yet.

“So where to now?”

“We still have to go back to the vineyard for our things,” said Ciri. “After that we should return to where I found you. Your gang must be missing you.”

“I bet they are.”

“Is it the same as the old days? Do you like spending time with them?”

“I like them, aye. But it can never be the same. You’re all I have left from that time.”

“You’re all I have left too.”

“Not so. A lot of people came together to make the whole affair last night possible. Frankly I thought it couldn’t be done, but you’ve always managed to surprise me. I had to spend the whole night coming up with the next wish.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow and turned to regard her. “You wanted me to fail?”

“Wanted? No. But the whole thing is complicated. After all, it’s not like I want him to claim my soul either. And yes, I know you plan to challenge him before he has the chance, but it’s like your friend Geralt said. I can’t go easy on you just because of how we’re acquainted outside of O’Dimm’s contract.”

“In that case, I’m very interested to know your second wish.”

“I wish,” said Mistle, tapping a finger against her chin and spinning around as she kept pace with Ciri, “for a piece of your heart. Something physical. It must be worthless to others, but priceless to you. You must give it to me as a token of your love.”

“There’s not many things that match that description,” Ciri admitted, staring pensively at the cobblestones. Around them, street performers dazzled a crowd with juggling, acrobatics, and fire eating. She barely paid them any mind. “Even fewer that I still have in my possession. The only thing that comes readily to mind is my sword.”

“Not that. I said it has to be worthless to others. A sword of that quality has value to plenty of people.”

“Then I’ve got nothing.”

Mistle patted her on the shoulder. “I don’t expect you to cough it up right away. Let’s give it, say, a week? Or two. If you truly love me, you’ll have something to show for it by then.”

She smiled uneasily. The other woman slid her arm along her shoulders until it was wrapped around her, and they continued walking in that manner for some time. Ciri relaxed under her touch, a sensation extremely familiar to her.

“You never could keep your hands off me.”

“Can you blame me? You’re so wonderful to touch.”

Ciri leaned into her and felt their heads touch as Mistle did the same. Around them, people didn’t stare the way they did in Ebbing, where half the reason she submitted to Mistle’s embrace was to raise eyebrows and offend the sensibilities of so-called decent folk. But as they’d learned from Vivienne de Tabris, not everybody saw their relationship as something unnatural or morally repugnant. Here, in the land of fairy tales, all that mattered was that they were happy.

It probably helped that they had walked beyond Hauteville at this point, into San Sebastian. Here the cobblestones gave way to dirt, which neither of them minded. The people here likewise kept to themselves, sparing them a passing glance or two before promptly returning to their own business. That was one good thing she could say about Beauclair.

Eventually Mistle removed her arm from her shoulders, but they still held hands while they walked down the street.

“Apart from how it ended,” Mistle began, “did you enjoy last night?”

“To be honest, I did. I’m amazed at how well you managed to behave, considering how you used to go on about how much you despise manners.”

“You’re not the only one who’s changed somewhat in the last few years,” she said. “I knew I’d get nowhere in that crowd if I was my usual self, so I invented someone else and became them for the night, just like Cinderella. I’ve often wondered what would have become of me had those bandits not destroyed my village.”

Ciri smiled devilishly. “I can just imagine you sitting in a layered dress, sipping your tea from fine china with your pinky extended. Turning all your suitors away and fucking your chambermaid in the closet.”

“You know me so well.”

“Were you disappointed last night? Now that I’m not in such a foul mood it occurs to me that we wasted the most perfect bed I’ve seen in ages.”

“I wasn’t. It’s enough to be with you. It doesn’t matter where. I’d even take you now, behind that alley.”

Ciri turned to her, both eyebrows raised. “You’re serious? In broad daylight?”

“I am serious. You don’t have to get all worked up about it.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

She blinked. Then she smiled broadly. “Then what are we waiting for?”

* * *

“Will she walk again?”

Doctor Elise Beaumont, a blonde woman in her mid forties, shook her head. “It does not seem likely. Frankly, it’s a miracle she survived at all. Had the wound been even an inch deeper, it would have cut open her internal organs and there would be no saving her. As it is, her spine has been completely severed just above the pelvis, and she won’t ever regain feeling or motor function below the waist.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Edna var Attre, unable to take her eyes off the still form of Rosa before her. She was consumed in equal parts by sorrow and burning rage, and didn’t know which one to set loose.

“It’s a damn shame. I’d heard she had the makings of a great fencer.”

“She did. When will she wake up?”

“In time. She’s taken milk of the poppy to help her deal with the pain, and it will help her sleep for a good while. We’ll need to keep her here while she recovers.”

She nodded. “Of course. As long as it takes.”

“Once she’s fit to travel, I recommend taking her to the Temple of Melitele in Ellander. The priestesses there can care for her spiritually as well as physically.”

“Ellander? In the North? Why ever would I take her there?”

“Why ever not? The war is over, and North and South haven’t always been enemies. I studied there myself for a time. I can only heal her body. Mother Nenneke can help to heal the rest of her. Which, believe you me, she will need after something like this. She won’t know what to do with herself at first, and Southern medicine lacks the capacity to deal with that.”

Edna remained silent for a minute or so. “I will consider it.”

“The Embassy has reached out to your father. He will be here in a few days. You can discuss it with him then.”

“I understand.”

The doctor slowly left the room, leaving Edna var Attre alone with her grief.

The hospital where Rosa had been taken consisted of one large common room with rows of beds, without much in the way of privacy. However, there were a few rooms on the second floor intended for patients of greater social importance. They had been given such a room, which still had three other beds that were, thankfully, unoccupied.

“You know, there are faster ways of healing her.”

She whirled her head around at Gaunter O’Dimm, who had appeared out of nowhere.

“How did you get in here?”

“Easily, to be honest. The only ones who guard this place are doctors and nurses. Not that barriers mean anything to me.”

“Who are you, really? Did you know this would happen to my sister?”

“What happened to your sister was a tragedy,” he replied. “As for who I am, my name is Gaunter O’Dimm, as I told you.”

“That’s not what I mean. You sent us after that girl because you said it would help us get at Philippa Eilhart.”

“And it has. Right now she’s scrambling to put out that fire, and making alliances that may prove troublesome in the future.”

“See? That’s what I mean! How do you know these things?”

“Simply put, I know a lot about everything. Including someone who might help you finish sinking the dagger into Philippa Eilhart’s back.”

Edna stared at him, crossing her arms. “Who?”

“Seek out the Baroness Maria Louisa La Valette. The two of you were neighbors in Novigrad. She has information, and you have the means of getting it where it needs to go. I suspect it will be a marvelous partnership.”

“And what about the ashen-haired girl? The one they call Falka?”

“You heard the Duchess. She’s not to be touched. But she made no mention of striking back at Philippa. After all, would any of this have happened if not for her?”

“The way I see it, none of this would have happened if not for _you_.”

“Such is the nature of my existence. There’s very little I haven’t had a hand in.”

“Again I ask: who are you? More precisely, _what_ are you?”

“I’m someone who grants wishes. The other details are dreadfully boring, and all who have learned them are either dead or met worse fates. I’ll spare you from that, because you’re still useful to me.”

“Wishes? Is that what you meant when you said there were other ways of healing my sister?”

He nodded. “There would of course, be a cost. Nothing in life comes free. But if you would agree to sign a contract, I’m sure we could come to an accord.”

Edna stood there for a long time, considering that. The man in front of her, if he was a man, was largely responsible for what had occurred last night, and trusting him only seemed to lead to further misery. She would do anything for Rosa, but cold logic told her that if she made a deal with Gaunter O’Dimm, no one involved would have a happy ending.

“What kind of cost?”

“So many to choose from. Performing a medical miracle would require a great deal of power. To prove your commitment, you’d first have to sacrifice something important. Then, after a few years, upon fulfilling a condition of your choice, I would be due a soul.”

“A soul? Are you a demon?”

“Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t like the answers to.”

Edna shook her head. “I will take the information you gave me,” she told him, slowly. “And _nothing_ else. Nothing is worth that price.”

He gave one last smirk, and pulled a book out of his robes, then handed it to her. “If you ever change your mind, that contains the instructions on how to contact me. I hope I’ll be seeing you”

And then he was gone.

Hands trembling, she opened the book. In the pages she flipped through, she saw a pentagram, instructions for placing candles, and an incantation to be read aloud. Edna shrieked and dropped it like a hot coal. She glanced over to the fireplace in the corner, then back at the book.

But she didn’t throw it in.

* * *

As she struggled not to scream while Mistle’s fingers worked back and forth inside her, Ciri finally succumbed to the orgasm that had been brewing for the last several minutes. Her legs buckled and she slid down the wall, dragging the other woman along with her. Mistle removed her fingers and began to slowly clean them off with her mouth, which only sent further shivers of ecstasy down her spine. She breathed heavily for several moments before hurriedly pulling her trousers back up.

“Holy shit.”

“You can say that again.”

“That was exhilarating,” she breathed. “The whole time, I was afraid we were going to get caught.”

“That’s what makes it so much fun,” said Mistle, grinning as she sat down next to her, back against the wall. “One time I fucked an ealdorman’s wife in the yard behind her hut. Thought for sure he’d hear us, since she wasn’t exactly quiet, but the next morning all he said was that some cat wouldn’t shut up all night.”

Ciri burst out laughing and punched her in the shoulder. “You’re making that up!”

“I swear it’s the honest truth. Another time a blacksmith’s daughter stuck her tongue up my arse behind her father’s forge and I squealed so loud we had to run before he caught us.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“All I mean to say is that neither of them were as thrilling as you. Honestly, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. Life was so unbearable without you.”

Leaning into her, Ciri smiled blissfully. “I’m glad we found each other again.”

“So am I. Eternally so. What about you? Have you had any others besides me?”

She shook her head. “Hotspurn made a move when I rode off after him, but he’d been shot with a crossbow bolt and he died while sucking on my tit. In the world of the Aen Elle I was supposed to bear a child for their king, but he could barely stand to touch me and we never made it all the way. In another world I met a knight named Galahad who thought I was a fairy and had some funny ideas about what fairies do with men who find them, but it never came to pass. So no, no others.”

“Nobody else? In all this time?”

“There was a man named Skjall who nursed me back to health when I landed in Skellige. He fancied me, but nothing ever happened. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I ever liked men. Every time one of them tried to sleep with me, I’d imagine it was you.”

“You mean you never got over me?”

“Not completely. I thought you were a distant memory, but the minute I saw you again it was like we never parted.”

“That’s adorable.”

Ciri punched her again, and they both laughed. “We should get back now.”

“Right.” They both stood. “Time’s ‘a wasting.”

They exited the alley a minute later, disheveled and covered in sweat. A hooded figure was leaning on the wall just outside the alley, watching them.

“You know, if you’re that desperate to fuck in the daytime, there are plenty of cheap rooms around here.”

Ciri flushed and turned around. “How long were you standing there? And who are you?”

“Long enough. As for your second question, I believe your friend can introduce me.” She doffed the hood, revealing a head of black hair.

Mistle looked confused, then smiled brightly. “Syanna!”

“Who?”

“I met her last night at the ball. She saved me from a vampire.”

“Sylvia Anna, at your service.” She bowed slightly. “Syanna for short.”

Ciri squinted with one of her eyes. “Is everything a portmanteau around here?”

“More or less. My sister loved the name Anarietta growing up.”

“Your sister is the Duchess?”

“I didn’t mention that?” asked Mistle, looking as though she honestly had forgotten.

“Not really.” Her eyes travelled up and to the side. “Oh, that’s where I heard the name before. Geralt mentioned it when the Duchess said the room we wanted was occupied. Now that I think of it, how are you here? I thought you were a prisoner.”

“I was. Past tense. Which is why it’s very important that we don’t linger.”

“And what’s this about a vampire?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Are you headed anywhere in particular?”

Ciri raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I should tell you.”

“It’s alright, Falka. We can trust her. She’s like us.”

She stared for a few moments before finally shrugging. “We’re headed to Corvo Bianco vineyard to pick up our things, then we leave Toussaint.”

“Ah.” She cupped her chin between her thumb and index finger, pacing back and forth. “It so happens I need to leave myself and I don’t really have a destination. Mind if I join you?”

Ciri turned to Mistle. “You’re really sure we can trust her?”

“At least hear her out.”

“Fine. You have until we get there to convince me. And you better not try anything funny.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we get to what I've been secretly setting up since at least the second chapter. I call it my grand unifying theory of Gaunter O'Dimm. We'll see how true it ends up being.
> 
> We've got a couple more chapters left in Toussaint before the story starts going other places. Just a couple more things to set up and then we can watch everything unfold.


	13. A Matter of Business

The claw stretched out above the table, held between two sets of fingers. While not possessed of the greatest strength, the hands bent the claw until it finally snapped, revealing the meat underneath. The man to whom the hands belonged yanked the meat out using his teeth, then returned to waxing philosophical, as though making mundane observations was the mark of an intelligent man.

“You see, like so many things in life, if you want to get to the true reward, you have to destroy the thing that’s keeping it from you. It’s the way of nature. New growth cannot exist without the destruction of the old.”

“You’re mixing metaphors,” said Keira Metz, already bored. “You just consumed the old growth. Nothing new will grow from a dead crab.”

“Wordplay was never my strong suit,” their host admitted, setting the crab leg down. “Besides, you came here to talk business and here I am playing at being a philosopher. I suppose I can’t help looking for the deeper meaning in things.”

They were seated on a private balcony in a large theater, with a dirt floor arena in the center. Currently, two gladiators entertained the rest of the crowd, but Keira hardly paid them any mind. Lambert occasionally glanced in the direction of the fighters, shaking his head whenever he observed a flaw in their technique. He stood near the edge of the balcony while she sat down at the table across from their host.

“You’ll forgive me if I say there’s not much depth to be found analyzing crustaceans.”

“I take your point. Still, I must ask. Out of everyone you could have brought this to, why me?”

“It’s a matter of infrastructure. No one else in the area has the capacity to both produce and distribute this product other than you. Believe me, we tried the local governor, but he sent us your way. I understand you have your fingers in just about everything in Ebbing.”

The man smiled and broke another crab leg. “What you hear is true. Since you first presented this to me, my workshops have produced a veritable pile of the stuff. It stands to be quite profitable, since you literally gave it away.”

“I’m not interested in financial rewards so much as political ones.”

“And those you will surely get if this does what you say. How did you come by it?”

“I found the research notes of a mage who no longer required them, on account of being devoured by rats.”

He paused in the middle of snapping the next crab leg, fixing her with a singular expression. “How unfortunate.”

“For him, perhaps.”

The man laughed. “So why have you arranged this meeting? Here to check up on your investment?”

“Partially. I have no monetary stake in your operation, but I’ve invested a great deal of my reputation in this cure. Why haven’t you distributed it yet?”

“A woman of your education should know that half of business is securing the right buyer. I’ve had plenty of takers, of course, but I’m holding out for a bigger one.”

“You’ve already got a big one. The Emperor is sure to buy up all you have, especially since the _Catriona_ sailed from Baccalà before docking in Cintra. One could argue that the plague originated in Nilfgaard.”

“Buy? More like seize. The Empire demands such ludicrous discounts that I’ve stopped dealing with them altogether. I’m not looking to trade on the open market. I have more… specialized clientele in mind.”

“The black market, then? You intend to sell my Catriona cure to someone who will jack up the price so immensely that the people it’s designed to help will go bankrupt trying to afford it? That wasn’t the deal we made.”

“The deal we made contained no provisions stating I couldn’t sell it under the table or off the books,” he replied. “That’s another thing about business: always draft your contracts carefully.”

“I shouldn’t need to make provisions to tell you not to break the bloody law.”

He smiled broadly, and she noticed that some of the crab meat was still stuck in his teeth. “As you said yourself, I have my fingers in everything. Including the law. How do you think I keep a fighting arena like this running? You see the man sitting in the box over there? He’s a judge who hears cases for this entire region. There’s a few guardsmen down in the stands over there, and if you look closely you can also see the table our dear governor occupies on the weekends. No matter where you are in the world, if you have enough money, the law serves you, not the other way around.”

“I don’t care what kind of white whale you’re holding out for,” said Keira. “While you sit on a warehouse full of that cure, more die from the Catriona plague every day. You can’t ignore that.”

“True enough. But I’m not obliged to care if it doesn’t turn a profit. You forfeited your right to say otherwise when you handed it over to me.”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Lambert said, still watching the fighters in the arena. “Do as the lady says before I lose my patience.”

He leaned back in his chair, not losing that hideous smile. “As threats go, Master Witcher, that was an admirable one. But there’s no need to be hostile. I’m sure we can reach an amicable solution that will benefit everybody.”

Keira stared hard at him. “Believe me, Mister Houvenaghel, when I say you will know when Lambert becomes hostile. And that if you do witness that, it will be the last thing you ever see.”

Dominik Bombastus Houvenaghel, master of the fighting arena and owner of half the businesses in Ebbing, laughed uproariously.

“I’m well aware of what witchers can do,” he replied, still devouring the crab. “Which is why I suggest we put those skills to use in the interest of finding a solution.”

“To a problem entirely created by you.”

“Not so. You see, it’s not just about finding the right buyer. Transporting it is also a concern, what with all the bandits in the area. Hiring proper guards or paying off the gangs eats into my profit margins something fierce, which is why I’m holding out for a better price. But if the bandit problem were to be… removed from the table, I could sell it for less and still reap a profit from the whole endeavor.”

Lambert glared at him. “I’m not a fucking bounty hunter.”

“Of course you’re not. My cousin, may the earth lie light upon him, had no equals in that particular trade. Did you know he was sometimes hired to kill witchers? He liked to collect their medallions as trophies. He was up to three when he died.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s the truth. I saw them for myself.”

“Yeah, because you’re so ploughing trustworthy.”

“Gentlemen, if we could refrain from measuring our cocks for a moment,” interrupted Keira, “I’d like to hear what Mr. Houvenaghel has in mind.”

“Thank you. I’m not suggesting you kill every bandit from here to Metinna. That would be impossible, even for a witcher and a sorceress. I only require your help with a single gang. You already met them in Unicorn.”

“The Rats?”

“Ironic, that in our efforts to cure a plague, we’re beset by rats of a different sort.”

“That’s not what ironic means.”

“Fair enough. They’re actually not the first to use the name. My aforementioned cousin, Leo Bonhart, killed the original gang. That a band of miscreants is still running around under that name, raiding merchants carrying my goods, is something I can no longer tolerate. Deal with the Rats, in any manner you see fit, and I’ll make sure your cure is distributed to the entire Empire within the month.”

Keira and Lambert exchanged a glance. The Witcher shrugged.

“One of them’s a werewolf,” he said. “And they did ruin our evening. Fine. We’ll track the little shits down.”

“Excellent. Shall we shake on it?”

“Let’s,” said Keira. “But I expect you to hold up your end.”

“As long as you do the same.”

They shook hands, and the contract was sealed.

* * *

Crayfish was finally back on the menu at the Cockatrice Inn. Located just across the bridge from Corvo Bianco vineyard, it was the perfect place for Mistle and Syanna to lie low while waiting for Ciri to collect her things. They each ordered a helping of the daily catch and found a corner table that was as secluded as one could get in such a crowded seafood shack.

“I don’t understand why people pay so much for this,” said Mistle as she sampled some of the dish. While admittedly tasty, it didn’t seem worth the ten crowns she’d handed over for it. Then again, it wasn’t her money.

“It’s the novelty of having been freshly caught this morning,” Syanna explained. “Just hours ago it was sitting at the bottom of the Sansretour.”

“I’d have gone wading in myself if I’d known that was so bloody important.”

The other woman laughed. “I knew tagging along with you was a good idea.”

“You’re not worried about anyone here recognizing you?”

“Here? The high nobility didn’t even recognize me last night, and I’d known some of them since childhood. No, I’m not worried. Toussaint forgot all about me long ago.” She closed her eyes and sighed resignedly. “And now they’ll forget me all over again.”

“You still haven’t said how you escaped.”

Syanna smiled. “Actually, that’s all thanks to you.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Orianna decided to follow through on her threats after my sister moved me to the dungeon for the night. I’d have been skewered if it weren’t for the intervention of a man dressed in yellow and blue who seemed to know everything about me.”

The next piece of crayfish froze in place halfway to her mouth. “He introduced himself to you?”

Syanna nodded. “He said he saved me because I had done him the favor of rescuing you. Then he offered me a wish. I took him up on his offer.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. Trust me, making a deal with him doesn’t end well.”

“Too late now. At any rate, as part of the deal I made, I can never return to Toussaint once I leave. And nothing remains of my old _hanse_. So I’ve decided to try my luck with you. At the very least, the company is enjoyable.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. But I’m spoken for.”

“I noticed. The whole ballroom did, in fact.”

Her cheeks were suddenly warm, and Mistle smiled. “That was rather spectacular, wasn’t it?”

“In the sense that it caused a spectacle, yes.”

“Well, I guess I got what I wished for.”

“Who is that girl, really? Wish or not, my sister doesn’t throw a party for just anybody.”

“You’re welcome to ask her yourself, once we’re out of here. Too many ears.”

“At least give me a hint.”

“Alright, then.” She leaned forward, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. “She’s your cousin. From Cintra.”

Syanna’s eyes went wide, and the look that passed over her features showed that she understood. “I heard she died a long time ago. I guess the rumors were greatly exaggerated.”

“Even I don’t know the full story. Like I said, you can ask her.”

“My sister and I lived in Cintra for a time when we were young, before I was banished. When I returned here to exact my revenge I used a Cintrian noble I knew from back then as my intermediary in several deals.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed trying to steal the Heart of Toussaint gem from Orianna. At the time I didn’t realize she was a vampire.”

“How _did_ you find out?”

“Dettlaff came to ‘rescue’ me the very same night. He’d come there straight from her villa, as had my sister. It didn’t take me long to connect the dots. I doubt Anarietta had much trouble either, though apparently they’re still on speaking terms even though my sister was the one who put out the contract on him.”

“Well you heard what she said at the ball. She blames you for putting Dettlaff in that position.”

“The fact that I was able to manipulate a higher vampire using something as insipid as his thoughtless devotion to me proves that they’re not the superior species they think themselves to be. It’s a shame. I heard Orianna used to be fun at parties.”

“You’re sure she won’t come after you again?”

“If you heard the way Gaunter O’Dimm said it, you’d be as certain as I am of what would happen if she did. We don’t have to worry about her.”

“Believe me, I’m well aware of what he can do.” A frown worried its way across her features and she looked away. “You said exile was part of the deal you made with him. Did he want anything else?”

“Not that he told me.”

“Hm.”

For the next few minutes, they finished their meals and traded stories, their eyes moving to the door whenever someone entered. Mostly they were common folk: vintners, cobblers, bricklayers and general peasantry. Working class folk. Occasionally a knight errant or ducal guard would enter, and Syanna would don her hood. None of them paid her any mind.

“Does she usually take this long?” Syanna asked after a while.

“I’m not sure. We’ve been separated a few years.”

“Really? Over what?”

“Something unavoidable. I’d rather not say more.”

“I respect that. What brought you back together?”

“Fate.”

Syanna allowed herself a tiny smirk. “You’re being awfully coy all of a sudden.”

“You’re being awfully curious.”

“Yes, but I’ve been that way since we met last night. That’s not what’s changed. Up until now you’ve been almost entirely candid with me, as I have been with you. But whenever I bring up your… friend, your mouth clamps shut tighter than a priestess’ legs. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Mistle stared, stone-faced. “Her secrets aren’t mine to tell.”

“I don’t think it’s her you’re protecting. I already know about your connection to Gaunter O’Dimm. It doesn’t take much sleuthing to figure out he’s probably behind your little reunion.” Her fingers slid around her mug and she raised it up to her mouth, swallowing the rest of her drink in one large swig. “And there’s clearly no hard feelings between you two, so I can’t imagine why you’d be separated for so long. Unless…”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“I just want to make sure your problems won’t end up biting me in the arse.”

“They will if you keep asking questions. I like you, but some things I prefer to keep private.”

“Very well then.” She stood. “Shall we go see what’s keeping your friend?”

Mistle stood as well. “Let’s.”

* * *

“This is delicious,” Triss said in response to the fresh eggs, sausage, and crepes that she had spent the last few minutes devouring.

The cook, an elderly woman who had come to bring them their next course, smiled slightly and bowed. “Thank you. To make food that people enjoy… it is all I want from life now.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she replied, gesturing at Geralt.

“Thank you, Marlene,” he said, accepting the second helping.

“I overheard your conversation earlier,” she said. “Regarding the Merchant of Mirrors. Does this mean you found the one who cursed me?”

“Actually, I met him before I met you. It helped me confirm you really were cursed instead of just a random wight.”

Marlene nodded, looking pensive. “You would be wise not to anger him. I know that from experience.”

“So do I.”

There was a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” she said before any of them could get up. By now the majordomo was attending to other parts of the estate, leaving Marlene as the only servant in the house. She crossed over and opened the door, to reveal…

Ciri.

“Good morning,” the ashen haired young woman said sheepishly. “I’m here for my things.”

“Well don’t just stand there,” said Yennefer. “Come in.”

She did so, crossing one arm over her chest and clutching the other. She glanced over each of them, a look of deep shame in her eyes. Triss stood and enveloped her in a hug.

“It’s okay. None of us are angry with you.”

“I know. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Marlene collected the used plates and took them back to the kitchen, disappearing from sight.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Getting breakfast somewhere else. I’ve come for my sword and my other belongings, then I’ll be on my way.”

“That’s it?” asked Yennefer. “You’re just going to run away?”

“No. But I’m still bound to—”

“We know that. But you can fulfill that girl’s wishes from anywhere. At the very least you should sit down for a minute. There’s something Triss has come up with that you’ll want to hear.”

“Alright.” Slowly, cautiously, she slid into a chair next to Triss, across from Geralt and Yennefer. “What’s this about?”

Triss rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Ciri, do you remember those trances you would enter at Kaer Morhen? When you told the future?”

“Barely. I mostly recall you telling me about them after they were over.”

“Shortly after I arrived there, I induced one of them with some of that White Seagull drink the witchers brewed, then I followed you into a vision. Something spoke back to me. I realize this might sound crazy, but I think it was Gaunter O’Dimm.”

Ciri jerked back, and the chair skidded hard along the floor. “What? How is that possible?”

Over the next few minutes she laid out what she had told Geralt and Yennefer earlier, and the two of them added their own observations. Ciri sat there for several minutes, staring at the table, while the rest of them exchanged knowing glances but said nothing.

“If this is true,” she finally said, “then that means he’s had his eye on me for much longer than I thought. But why approach me now?”

“You got me,” said Geralt. “Gaunter O’Dimm rarely does anything directly. I’m surprised he got as involved as he did last night.”

“It would explain how I’ve survived as many close calls as I have over the years,” she observed. “I thought it was just some nameless, faceless Destiny, but what if…” Ciri shook her head, rejecting the idea. “No. At least some of it had to just be luck.”

“In any case, we need to find out the truth,” said Triss. “Do you know where Avallac’h is?”

“As far as I know, he went back to the world of the Aen Elle. But I’m not about to take you there. I can’t stand the place, and I’m still bound to Mistle. If I sent you there it would be a one way trip.”

“Avallac’h should know a way back,” said Geralt.

“Yes, but he’ll have no reason to help her. Nor will any of the Alder Folk. It’s a terrible place.”

“How did you escape it?” asked Triss.

“With the help of my power, a unicorn, and blind, stupid luck. Don’t go there, I beg you.”

“Is there a way of making him come here?”

“Not unless Eredin rises from the dead and pursues me again.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Yennefer said. “It’s disturbingly possible given everything that’s happened.”

Ciri stood. “If that’s everything…”

“It’s not. There’s still one thing we need to discuss.”

She sat back down. “What is it?”

“When your commitment to Mistle is over,” began Yennefer, “if you’re successful in winning back her soul, what do you plan on doing next?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest. I suppose we’d figure it out together.”

The sorceress’ face turned hard as stone. “I forbid it.”

“You _what_?”

“I forbid you from ruining your life by following that girl. She’s done nothing but lead you to harm, and she only pretends to love you. You’re just someone for her to manipulate, and when she’s used you up she’ll abandon you.”

Ciri clenched her hands into fists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know precisely what I’m talking about. It’s hardly the first time I’ve met someone like her. She’s a bad influence, and all she’s ever going to do is drag you down into the mud along with her.”

“That’s not true.” She looked to Geralt and Triss for support, but found the same expression on their faces. “Right? It’s not true!”

“I’m sorry, Ciri, but it is,” said Triss. “I’ve known people like her too. They’re only ever in it for what they can get out of the relationship. On top of that she’s a murderer and a thug. She’s not a good person.”

“Well then what am I?!”

She stood, and her chair toppled over onto the floor. “If she’s so terrible, then what about me? I’ve done _everything_ she has and worse! I murdered and stole right alongside her, and I fucking enjoyed it! Have you never wondered how I fit in among the Rats so easily? I’m not the innocent little girl you raised at Kaer Morhen, or the one who had such a promising future in magic. That girl died in the desert, and I’m all that’s left!”

She stood there, palms pressed against the table, leaning over them and shaking with rage. Yennefer met her gaze without changing her expression.

“Is that what Gaunter O’Dimm convinced you of last night?”

“Does it matter? It’s still true. Judging purely on the things we’ve done, how exactly am I different from her?”

“You were traumatized,” said Triss. “You didn’t start doing those things until you fell in with her gang, and you did them so you’d fit in. That’s hardly your fault.”

“So it’s hers? Do you know what happened to her village? If you’re going to say that trauma justifies the things I did, you should extend the same courtesy to her!”

“The difference between you is that you tried to move past it and become better,” said Yennefer. “She seems perfectly happy to remain a marauder.”

“You really think she’s beyond saving? If so, then the same is true of me. I never became a better person. I only fought people who were worse. The rest was just lying to myself. You want to know what really happened last night? Gaunter O’Dimm made me take a good hard look in the mirror. And I didn’t like what I saw.”

Triss looked to Geralt, who until now had watched the conversation leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

“Do you want to weigh in at any point?”

He shrugged. “What do you expect me to say? It’s not like I’m a good person either. If this is the path Ciri wants to take, then that’s her right. None of us can tell her what to do anymore.”

Ciri threw her hands up and let them fall back down. “Thank you! At least someone’s on my side!”

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m not going to stop you from being with this girl, but that doesn’t mean I approve, either.”

“Right, I forgot. You’re neutral like always. Awfully convenient position to fall back on.”

“None of this is convenient. You remember what I taught you a long time ago about neutrality.”

“Which you promptly ignored when you killed those Scoia’tael. You’ve always cared about me, and you’ve always had an opinion on what I should do. It’s time you stopped pretending otherwise.”

“Fine. You want my opinion? Triss and Yen are right. The girl is bad news. But they’re wrong about one thing. She does actually care about you. Why else would she make a wish based entirely around spending one perfect night with you?”

“To manipulate her.”

“And besides,” added Triss, “it didn’t exactly turn out perfect.”

“That’s not important. She could have asked Ciri for anything, and she chose a date.”

Triss glared at him. “No offense, Geralt, but you’re not the best judge of women’s intentions.”

“And you just met this girl last night.”

“You only met her last week!” said Yennefer. “And she wasn’t exactly a difficult puzzle to crack.”

“My point is, Ciri knows her better than any of us,” he finished. “If she trusts her, then I’m not in a position to argue.”

“Thank you,” said Ciri. “I appreciate all of you, I do. But you have to let me make my own decisions, even if you think they’re bad ones.”

“No we don’t,” Yennefer replied. “Geralt is telling you what’s easiest for you to hear, just like he always has. I’m telling you the hard truth because I believe it will save you from a world of trouble.”

“Because I’m someone who always needs saving, right? Who can’t be trusted to make her own mistakes? It’s funny, you know, because if you’d saved me a long time ago, I wouldn’t be in this position!”

A pall descended upon the room, and the three of them stared at Ciri in silence. Her green eyes glowed with rage, and she continued.

“Why did you take me into that room on Thanedd? You’d surely guessed by that point what all of them wanted of me! You could have stolen me away back into the city and teleported anywhere! Instead you dangled me in front of all of them, and everything descended into bedlam because of what the Elder Blood made me say!”

She turned to Triss. “And you! You were so wrapped up in politics that you didn’t stop to consider how much danger your little counter-coup put me in! The kings you represented wanted me dead, and you destroyed the one place I might have been kept safely out of their reach! You could have at least warned Geralt and Yennefer!”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Triss replied, maintaining her composure with nothing short of an iron grip. “We couldn’t be sure they hadn’t already been swayed to Vilgefortz’s side, and I wasn’t in charge of the operation anyway.”

“It doesn’t matter! If I hadn’t been forced to run for my life, I’d not have found the Tor Lara portal, and none of this would have happened! Even Geralt failed to save me that day!”

It was quiet for a minute or so as all of them let that sink in. It was Geralt who spoke first.

“You’re forgetting something.” He said it quietly, without emotion. “All of that happened exactly as it was destined to. And if Triss’ theory about Gaunter O’Dimm is right, that does have his sick brand of irony all over it.”

Slowly, mechanically, Ciri picked up her chair and sat back down. “No. I don’t accept any notion of destiny that says I had to go through that ordeal just to fulfill some higher purpose. Certain events may be prescribed in the timeline, but we don’t travel blindly through life like puppets in a fog. Telling the future is just a matter of knowing where decisions will lead before those consequences unfold. But we still make them regardless.”

“I don’t have the gift of prophecy,” said Yennefer, low and subdued. Only the wounded look in her eyes betrayed how she really felt. “But I can see very clearly where this choice will lead you, Ciri. I can’t let you go down that road.”

She slowly shook her head. “I know you can’t. But it’s not up to you.”

Now that the shouting had subsided, Marlene emerged from the kitchen and made her way over to the table to bring a serving of breakfast to Ciri. She thanked her numbly, and the cook was making her way back when a knock sounded at the door again.

“That’s probably Mistle wondering why I’ve been gone so long.” She stood up. “I’ll get it.”

“No, no, sit down and enjoy your meal, I insist,” said Marlene, already halfway to the door. She opened it, and went white with shock when she saw Gaunter O’Dimm standing there.

“Hello Marlene,” he said, holding out a bowl and a spoon. “I trust you won’t let me go hungry this time.”

She collapsed, and would have hit the floor with a thud if Ciri hadn’t instantly teleported to catch her. She held the unconscious woman in her arms and stared up at the being who took the form of a man but was so much more terrible.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said as all eyes turned towards him. “My ears were positively burning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the other bomb I've been waiting to drop.
> 
> No update next week, because I will be at Phoenix Comicon. I also only have one more chapter pre-written and I'd like to give myself more time. Sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger like that, but I haven't quite been able to match the productivity I had when I started.


	14. All Roads Lead to Perdition

“Isn’t this fascinating?” Gaunter O’Dimm stepped over the threshold, walking past Ciri and the unconscious Marlene de Trastamara. “I would claim surprise, but I think we’re all past that. At the very least I’m impressed by how close you are to the mark. Even if that distance is still measured in lightyears.”

Triss finished standing. “You mean I’m right?”

“Now, now.” He waved his finger back and forth. “That would be telling. Still, I must find a proper way to reward your diligence. You managed to dig up more about me in one sleepless night than Shakeslock did in the last five years of his life. I guess Oxenfurt’s standards aren’t what they used to be.”

He was standing in the center of the main room now, with all eyes on him. Geralt had moved over to help Ciri move Marlene into the bedroom and set her down, while Yennefer and Triss stared hard at Gaunter O’Dimm, who smiled serenely and waited for them to finish.

“Well then, what shall I do with you, Triss Merigold? Do you remember the charred mess you were reduced to after Sodden Hill? It took an awful lot of magic to make you presentable again. Magic that could easily be undone.”

Triss inhaled sharply but made no other reaction, save for her eyes widening a hair.

“And speaking of appearances changed with magic, it would be incredibly simple to turn Yennefer here back into the hunchback whose family couldn’t wait to get rid of her, who had to endure unimaginable pain so people could stand to look at her in the daylight. I wonder if Geralt would still love you?”

Lightning flashed inside Yennefer’s violet eyes, but she stood there and said nothing as he continued.

“And Geralt. You’re such a dear old friend it almost pains me to do this. You were altered through mutagens instead of magic, but in the grand scheme of things, they’re not altogether different. I wonder how well your body would handle a mutation reversal at your age. Are you curious as well?”

“Enough with the threats,” Geralt snapped. “I get it. You want us to back off. But you’re also someone who makes deals. I’ve got one for you.”

Steepling his fingers, Gaunter O’Dimm smiled darkly. “Really? I’m listening.”

“We each want information from a different source,” the Witcher explained. “And I know you’re not going to tell us. So how about this: we each go on our way to seek the knowledge we’re looking for. You can put one obstacle in each of our paths, but they have to be possible to overcome. If we do, then you let us gain the knowledge, pass it on to Ciri, and don’t bother us any further. If we fail, then you get to follow through on everything you just said.”

“Interesting. To truly make this a pact, all parties must agree.” He looked to Yennefer and Triss. “What do you say?”

“It doesn’t sound like we have any other option,” said Triss. “Fine. I agree.”

“I do as well,” said Yennefer.

“I don’t!” Ciri shouted. “You’re mad making a deal with him!”

“While this is ultimately about you, your permission is not required,” Gaunter O’Dimm explained. “They’ve all made this decision of their own free will, out of some sense of devotion towards you. You should be honored to have a family so loyal.”

“You don’t get to threaten people and call it free will when they offer up an alternative!”

Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ciri. This is our decision. We’re doing this to help you, and we don’t have any other options. You know what he can do.”

“You beat Vilgefortz,” she insisted, sniffling roughly as she fought back tears. “You can beat him too.”

“I know. But this is the only way to do that. Trust me, like I’m trusting you.”

She closed her eyes and sniffled. “Alright.”

“Well then.” By this time Gaunter O’Dimm had produced a contract from his satchel and placed it on the table. “Everything’s been drafted. All that remains is three signatures. In blood, of course.”

“Me first,” said Geralt. Pulling out a small dagger, he made a small cut across his forearm, dipping the quill that O’Dimm provided into the wound before signing his name on the contract.

“Excellent. To make things interesting, I’ll tell you what to expect.” Weaving his fingers together, he looked straight into his eyes. “Geralt. You must walk down a path you swore never to travel, and humble another who reaches beyond her station. Then you will find the echoes of that which came before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out. I can’t do everything for you.”

Geralt grunted and stepped aside, and Yennefer pricked herself with the dagger, then signed her name in blood.

“Yennefer. You must confront an old ally and sacrifice yourself to prevent a war. Look for the flower that blooms after midnight.”

She nodded wordlessly, fixing him with a gaze that would utterly annihilate the defenses of anyone human, but did not affect his calm smile in the slightest. Finally, Triss stepped up to the contract and signed her name.

“Triss. You must find your way home from a place where there is no escape, within the serpent that swallows its own tail. You must choose between the bird or the cage.”

Nodding, she stepped back, and he rolled up the contract, placing it in his satchel.

“I must say, this turned out to be far more interesting than I anticipated. I’ll be seeing all of you very soon.”

With that, he stepped out the door, and disappeared.

They stood there, pondering what this meant for them going forward. None of them spoke, until Yennefer summed it up in two short words.

“Well, shit.”

* * *

Luxury villas in Beauclair were seldom inhabited by people who lived there all year. Most of Toussaint’s permanent residents either stayed in vineyards or castles out in the countryside, and the nobility lived in or around the palace. The rest of the Hauteville district was largely commercial, with shops carrying the latest fashions and luxury goods.

Most of the housing in this area was owned by people whose stays in Toussaint were typically measured in days, such as foreign dignitaries or high level imperial figures. The servants knew them better than their owners, who rarely graced them with their presence due to how often they moved around.

Such was the case with the villa through which the Baroness Maria Louisa La Valette currently paced, nursing a bottle of Fiorano. She held the glass close to her face with her right hand and swung the bottle back and forth with the other, walking aimlessly through the empty chambers entirely unmolested by the various servants.

She had started drinking  a couple hours earlier and was currently halfway through the bottle. There was nothing else to do, considering the man who owned this villa was out on business. Again.

Phantom flames fanned the sides of her face as Philippa Eilhart’s mocking visage appeared inside her mind. That Redanian whore had brought nothing but ruin through her schemes, and the thought of what she was asking Morvran to do filled her with indescribable rage.

She wasn’t stupid. She had some idea what the sorceress intended, if not her exact plans. It involved treason of some sort, and while she was reasonably certain that Morvran would be too clever to go along with it, the nagging doubts in her mind had grown fat on the wine with which she intended to drown them. Now she could not think of anything else.

Boots clacked against the lavishly expensive tile as one of the guards approached. She turned to him, swilling the wine glass around in a circle.

“Madame, there is a woman at the door requesting to see you.”

The glass went still. “Me? Not General Voorhis?”

“She asked for you by name.”

“Who is it, then?”

“Edna var Attre, Madame.”

Maria narrowed her eyes. She had of course seen what happened last night. Morvran’s eyes had been glued to the duel, and she would confess to being intrigued herself. She certainly had not expected things to end the way they did. The question was what Edna var Attre could want with her.

“Send her in.”

The guard nodded and turned, walking back the way he came. A minute later, the young Edna entered the chamber, and the Baroness moved forward to embrace her, setting the bottle down on a nearby table.

“Edna! My deepest sympathies. It was simply awful what happened to Rosa.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “The doctors say she’ll survive, but…”

She nodded solemnly. “It’s a shame. She was such a promising young fencer.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. But she’s more than just her hobbies.”

“Of course, darling. My apologies.” She gently gripped Edna’s shoulder and gestured her towards two chairs set up next to the table where she had placed the Fiorano. “Has your father been made aware?”

“He has. He’ll be here in a few days.”

“That’s good to hear. What can I do for you?”

Edna was silent for several moments, clasping her hands together above her waist and staring pensively at the floor. “It’s more a question of what I can do for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been told from a reliable source,” the other woman explained, still staring straight ahead, “that you have information regarding Philippa Eilhart. Information that could be damning if delivered into the right hands.”

The wine glass froze in place right before she was about to take another sip. She set it down, staring hard at the young woman. “Who told you that?”

“It’s not important. What matters is we both have reason to get back at Philippa Eilhart. You have information, and as the daughter of an ambassador, I have a direct line of communication to the Emperor. That seems like the ideal foundation for a shared endeavor.”

The Baroness squinted. “Let’s say I do have information. Let’s even say it’s credible. How do I trust you?”

“My sister is lying in that hospital bed because of Philippa’s interest in her opponent from last night,” Edna revealed. “The ashen-haired girl they call Falka. Apparently that’s not even her real name.”

“So because the Duchess forbade you from striking back at her, you want to take a shot at Philippa Eilhart.” A sly smile blossomed across her features. “I can work with that.”

Edna displayed a similar smile. “Wonderful.”

* * *

It was said that a witcher could follow a trail that had been cold for years. So heightened were their senses that they could see blood that had long since dried and washed away. They could hone in on a scent that was days old and mixed in with several others. They could follow tracks that had been swept away by all manner of sand, snow, or other footsteps. As far as most people were concerned, they were the best trackers in the world.

But they weren’t the only ones.

The girl’s stench had led her here. Though it would be foolish to attack her directly while she bore the mark of the Man of Glass, that didn’t preclude getting to her in other, more subtle ways. So Orianna had been retracing the girl’s steps all over Beauclair, until finally she arrived in front of a shop that was oddly humble for one located in Hauteville, displaying a wooden sign painted with the word “Tattoo.”

She took a deep breath in front of the door, then exhaled slowly. Mistle of Thurn had been here, within the last week. And she had lingered inside long enough for the place to be worth investigating.

“Welcome!” the shopkeep greeted as she stepped through, dressed a great deal more plainly than she had been the previous evening. “How may I assist you?”

Smiling with practiced warmness, Orianna stepped further into the shop, her eyes scanning the various samples on display, exciting her artistic side. No wonder he was able to open a shop in the upper city.  The door shut behind her.

“I was thinking we could help each other. Do you know who I am?”

The man squinted, tilting his head to look at her from another angle, before ultimately shaking his head. “I am sorry.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t know your name either.”

“Almavera.”

“Very nice to meet you, Almavera. My name is Orianna. I host the Mandragora.”

Recognition flashed in Almavera’s eyes, which started to behold her with greater reverence. “My most humble apologies! Had I known you were coming I would have—”

She raised a hand, and he stopped. “That’s quite alright. I’d actually like to keep this visit a secret. If you help me with what I’m looking for, I promise you’ll be quite the attraction at my next gathering.”

“But of course! What is it you need?”

“I’m interested in someone who came by here within the last week. Tall, blonde, hair shorn on the sides. Bit of an attitude.”

Almavera’s eyes registered a new emotion, which she had not expected: fear.

“Am I correct in saying she was here?”

He nodded very slowly. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Then start talking. Given the way you’re trembling right now, she obviously wasn’t an average customer. How do you know her?”

Absentmindedly, Almavera moved over to a stool and sat down, clutching his forehead as he started to sweat. Panic began to overtake his features, and told Orianna more than she would have been able to learn with words. His breathing quickened, and he struggled to say anything.

“Are you alright?”

“I… I…”

Orianna moved closer to him, staring straight into his eyes. His features grew slack, and he relaxed, then looked up at her obediently.

“Feel better?”

He nodded.

“Now tell me about her.”

“I thought she was dead,” he began. “I met Mistle and her gang more than five years ago, in Ebbing. I was passing through a postal station in my wagon, and they captured me and asked me to pay the toll. I’d already paid protection money to their employer, but they weren’t up to date on the new sign. So while they waited for him to arrive, they took the toll out of me in trade.”

“You gave them tattoos?”

He nodded. “Mistle asked for a red rose on her inner thigh. The other girl, Falka, asked for the same. That was when Hotspurn showed up.”

“Hotspurn?”

“Their employer. He managed all the gangs in the area, worked out the protection rackets and kept them up to date on which merchants to raid and which ones to let pass. I was working on Falka’s tattoo the whole time they talked.”

Orianna’s eyes lit up with interest. “What did they talk about?”

“Business, mostly. Apparently the Rats had failed to do the job they were hired for. He also talked about a Baron’s daughter they robbed. The Baron was offering a bounty for Falka to be delivered to him so she could be flayed alive.”

“And this same Falka is the one who was at the ball last night?”

He nodded. “They came in the shop about a week ago, like you said. I jumped out of my skin when I found out they were alive.”

“Why did you think they were dead?”

“Because of Leo Bonhart.”

“Who?”

“Bounty hunter. Operated in Ebbing around the same time. Apparently Nilfgaard hired him to kill the gang, and they rode off to face him right after they were done with me. From what I’ve heard, he killed them all.”

“How reliable were your sources?”

“On their own? Not terribly. But most accounts didn’t vary much. Some of the rumors said he left Falka alive and kept her like a slave, but I never knew what to believe. Until they walked in last week I hadn’t thought about them in years.”

A smile spread across Orianna’s features. The involvement of the Man of Glass now made more sense. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“There was one other thing they talked about. Hotspurn told them that the Emperor of Nilfgaard was set to marry Cirilla, the princess from Cintra. Wouldn’t have paid it much mind, except that Falka said it was a lie and stormed out. Never did find out why it mattered so much to her.”

That gave her pause. Orianna had of course heard the stories of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the displaced Lion Cub of Cintra, who according to official record was restored to her rightful throne after the end of the Second Northern War. Almost immediately after Cintra had risen from the ashes, it fell victim to the initial outbreak of the Catriona plague, which continued to ravage the world years later. Ciri had survived, by most reports, but without visiting she could not be sure.

But this information told a different story.

“Thank you, Almavera,” she said, having learned all she could. “What you’ve told me today is very helpful. I’ll be in touch.”

“It was my pleasure.” He stood and bowed, still under her thrall. When it wore off in a few hours, he would not remember anything other than what she wanted him to. “While I have you here, would you like a tattoo?”

She smiled. “Thank you, but no. I’m not prepared to commit to something like that forever.”

* * *

“Have you all gone completely insane?” Ciri exclaimed as soon as Gaunter O’Dimm disappeared. “There’s no way this will end well for you! You shouldn’t have made a deal with him!”

Yennefer stared at her coldly. “Neither should you. But here we are.”

“I didn’t have a choice! It was make a deal or bleed out!”

“And you think we have it any better?” asked Triss. “You heard what he threatened to do to us.”

“There was another way out. You could have just dropped it and let me solve this problem on my own!”

“So we should trust you to deal with him even though you won’t extend that courtesy to us? I know you have a problem with people seeing you as someone to be rescued, but that doesn’t mean you should just refuse help.”

“It’s not that,” she replied, pacing back and forth in front of the open door. “I didn’t want to draw you into this any more than I already had. As long as Mistle and I were the only ones bound to him there was a chance of all of you being safe. But not anymore.”

Triss crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “You didn’t draw us into this. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I’m the one who chose to stay up all night researching him, and I’m the one who brought it to Geralt and Yennefer. I didn’t even want to tell you about it until we had solid proof, but things didn’t work out that way.”

“No,” said Geralt. “I’m the one who wanted to keep it from her. You and Yen talked me into it.”

Everyone looked to Yennefer, who shrugged. “What? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Grumbling, Triss wrapped a palm around her forehead. “None of this even matters anyway. It’s done. Now we have to hold up our end of the bargain by doing what we were planning to do in the first place. Do we have any idea what he meant by the hints he gave us?”

“Having to humble someone who reaches beyond their station could describe any number of people I know,” said Geralt. “But I doubt he meant any of you.”

“And I was planning to visit the Valley of Flowers, so it shouldn’t be that hard to find one that blooms after midnight. And Francesca is an old ally.” She looked at Triss. “I have no idea what your clue means.”

“The Ouroboros,” said Ciri. “The serpent that swallows its own tail. The Aen Elle call it the Spiral. It’s a closed loop of spacetime that kept the Wild Hunt from visiting more than a handful of worlds. They wanted me to bear a child who would unlock the wider multiverse for them.”

“So I have to travel through that?”

“If you want to make your way back from the world of the Aen Elle, then yes. I’m the only one capable of making that journey without a navigator, and I only ended up in the right place and time out of sheer, blind luck. I told you it was a bad idea to make a deal with him.”

“It’s not _impossible_ to overcome,” she said. “I just have to find a navigator. Avallac’h should know the way.”

She scoffed. “Good luck getting him to help you. Now that he’s free of me he has no reason to be concerned about any of your lives.”

“I can handle it.” She smiled and cupped Ciri’s cheek with her hand. “Trust me.”

“I do. But I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“At this point, all that matters is holding up our end of the deal.”

Ciri hesitated for several moments, then calmly took several deep breaths. “Once I send you there, I can’t bring you back. You’ll need to figure it out for yourself.”

“I know.” She turned to Yennefer. “Can I borrow your megascope? I need to tell King Tankred I’ll be gone longer than I thought.”

“Of course. There’s a portal in my study that will take you there. Just look for the book titled _Advanced Paranormal Entomology._ ”

“The study of supernatural bugs?”

Yennefer shrugged. “Would you have suspected it?”

“Good point. I’ll see you in a bit.”

She walked over to Yennefer’s study in the back corner of the house, and a few seconds later they heard the telltale thunderclap of a portal opening. Once it closed, Ciri turned to face them.

“I just want to say,” she began, “that whether or not you approve of Mistle, I still love her. And that you’ve got no right to criticize me for bad decisions after the one you just made.”

Yennefer said nothing, but moved forward and embraced her, and Ciri’s defenses instantly collapsed. They stood there like that for some time, without words to come between them. Any anger or lingering frustration left over from last night evaporated away, and Ciri realized how much she’d missed having a mother. She squeezed her arms more tightly around her and nestled her head in the crook of Yennefer’s neck.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself,” said the sorceress as she stroked the back of Ciri’s hair. “I can’t imagine what you see in this girl is all.”

“You do realize people wonder what Geralt sees in you? You practically tortured him for years.”

“He likes it.”

Ciri cackled uncontrollably. Geralt said nothing to contradict her, his only acknowledgment being a smirk and a slight puff of air escaping his nose. Yennefer released her from her grip, and the two of them separated. Ciri tucked a bit of hair back behind her left ear.

“Mistle just hates authority, that’s all. She’s a completely different person when she’s with me.”

“Gods, it’s like listening to my younger self. Let me give you some free advice, Ciri. Anybody who treats you one way while treating the rest of the world with total contempt isn’t someone you should give your heart to. You might think you’re special to her, but all I’ve seen her do so far is take advantage of you.”

“Then you haven’t seen anything,” she insisted. “There’s a lot of truth in what you say. But there’s a whole other side of her that you refuse to acknowledge. That’s why she keeps it hidden.”

Yennefer released a deep, exasperated sigh. “I don’t think we’re ever going to agree on this. But when this whole thing does go down in flames, and believe me, it will… I’ll be here for you.”

“We both will,” said Geralt.

“I know. And thank you. I know you only want to keep me safe. But since when have I ever done exactly what either of you said?”

He chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

“That she does. Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”

“For the record,” he said, “I would still love you. Even if he did revert you back to your original form.”

“That’s appreciated, darling. But it doesn’t mean I want that to happen, and I don’t intend to fail. You’d better not either.”

“Me? Fail to humble somebody? How could that possibly go wrong?”

She stared at him with eyes half-lidded. “Hilarious.”

The portal opened again, and Triss walked back into the room. “Well, that’s out of the way. I told him I had Lodge business to take care of, which is technically true, and he said to take as long as I need.”

“Time is meaningless in the world of the Aen Elle anyway,” said Ciri. “Different worlds move at different speeds, so to make your way back you not only have to navigate through space, but time. Get it wrong and you could come back after we’ve all been dead for centuries.”

“I think I’ll be fine, Ciri. The contract says the challenge has to be possible to overcome.”

“Yes, but vague wording like that is where Gaunter O’Dimm thrives. Something can be technically possible while being so difficult that almost no one can do it. I’m the only one who can make that journey unassisted, and now I can’t come with you, not that I wanted to before. All I can do is send you there.”

Triss smiled and placed a hand over Ciri’s cheek. “That’s enough. I can figure out the rest.”

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Are you ready?”

She nodded.

Closing her eyes, Ciri breathed deeply and focused. Several seconds passed before a green glow began to emanate from her body, dancing around like flames while she stood there, unharmed and unbothered by them. Like they belonged to her.

Tracing her hands around in a circle, Ciri carved a portal from thin air, made of that same pale green energy. Her eyes opened and she gestured for Triss to step through. She did so, and then the portal disappeared.

A moment of silence passed between Ciri, Yennefer, and Geralt. Then they all started moving.

“I suppose I should go call Ida,” said Yennefer, making her way towards the study.

“I’ll check on Marlene,” said Geralt, moving towards the bedroom.

Ciri stood there for another moment. After they had left, she looked around the empty room. The space that seemed cozy and inviting for the past week now appeared cavernous and cold, and she had never felt more alone.

“I’ll just grab my things, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back, folks. I'm going to move the update schedule to every two weeks. I don't have enough content prepared to sustain weekly updates past this week. If that changes, I'll move things back to the way they were. Thank you for understanding.


	15. The Devil In Me

The Corvo Bianco vineyard was a short walk away from the Cockatrice Inn, but the warm sun coupled with the seafood stirring in Mistle’s stomach made it seem longer somehow. She hadn’t said a word to Syanna since they’d stepped outside, which continued all the way across the bridge that spanned the Sansretour.

Perhaps she had been unfair with her. After all, she was only curious. She was a damn quick study, however, and if she hadn’t put the pieces together already, she likely would soon. Then again, that was unavoidable if they were to travel together.

She missed the old days. There were no secrets among the Rats—nothing they didn’t share. When the world rejected them, they found each other, and forged a new family from the ashes. Those were the best days of her life, because she was free. Really, truly free. It never could have lasted.

“I’m sorry.”

Syanna cocked an eyebrow and glanced at her. “For what?”

“For treating you like everybody else who wants my life story. You shared yours, it’s only right I tell you the truth.”

“You mean how the reason you and your girlfriend were separated is because you died?”

Mistle’s heart skipped a beat and she staggered before catching herself. “How in the world did you…?”

“Figure out something that wouldn’t occur to most people? Because I’m not most people. I dated a vampire, and just last night I was set free from prison by what I’m pretty sure is some sort of demon. Given what you owe him, it stands to reason he performed some sort of miracle for you.”

Syanna glanced at her for a moment before returning her eyes to the path ahead.

“Besides which, I heard the same stories about Leo Bonhart as everybody else. If he was after you, that meant you were as good as dead already.”

“He kept Falka alive,” she said quietly after a few moments. “Made her watch while my guts spilled out of me. Then, from what she tells me, he tied her to a post while he cut off all our heads.”

“And they called me a monster. How did he die?”

“Falka killed him."

“All by herself?”

“She tells the story better.”

“Well, we’re almost there.”

The vineyard was now in sight, and they followed the branch in the road that transitioned into a cobblestone path after they passed underneath an archway.

“So you’ve been staying here all week?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It belongs to Ciri’s… well, I’m not sure what he is to her.”

“What’s his name?”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

Syanna froze.

“On second thought, I’ll hang back here.”

“What, afraid of the big White Wolf?”

“He knows me. And he knows my sister. If she asks him where I’ve gone I’d rather he not know. Go grab your girlfriend and let’s be on our way.”

Mistle shrugged. “Alright then. At least get the horses ready.”

“I can do that.”

* * *

Moving through a portal was similar to passing through a heavy mist, like a veil separating two points that vibrated with energy just beyond the bounds of perception. There was a moment, at once brief and eternal, when Yennefer felt like she was nowhere at all.

Then reality asserted itself around her and she was in her private study, an otherwise inaccessible cave inside the labyrinthine tunnels underneath Mount Gorgon. From what Geralt told her, Avallac’h had used them years earlier, but according to her… neighbors down here, the elf had not returned in years. But that was not why she had come.

The neighbors in question, a number of intelligent post-Conjunction creatures who had formed their own society within the caverns, had been more welcoming of her than they were of Geralt, especially after she began providing them with magical aid for various everyday needs. In return, they showed her the ideal location to set up her sanctum, and some of them even maintained it while she was away.

Many sorceresses she’d known over the years shrieked at the thought of “monsters,” and either enlisted witchers to slay them or lived their whole lives behind city walls. But Yennefer knew what it was like to be feared by the whole world. To be viewed with suspicion at best and murderous hostility at worst. To belong nowhere.

Monsters weren’t that much worse than humans, and in some ways, they were even more civilized. The smarter ones only killed for food or self defense, not because they wanted to blame all their failures on a group they secretly envied. That was more than Yennefer could say for most humans. Sometimes, when she wanted to get away from it all, she came here and got to know her neighbors.

When she emerged from the portal, however, the room was empty.

Her megascope stood in the center, with her other sundry items stored at least ten feet in every direction. It was still vibrating, having been freshly used by Triss, but the crystals had enough charge that they didn’t need replacing yet.

Closing her eyes, Yennefer focused and drew on the Power like she had done thousands of times before. It was easier here. The mountain lay atop an intersection for several ley lines, which would explain why Avallac’h could travel freely between here and the world of the Aen Elle without a navigator.

But that would be useless to her or Triss, since the exact details of how such travel was possible would take centuries to learn. It was pointless anyway, because Ciri was able to bypass all that, somehow. Maybe her powers really did come from a demon.

Power surged into her, and Yennefer opened her eyes and began her incantation.

It was a simple phrase, a couple of words, but those words held the keys to reality itself. When she had first learned magic she wondered why there had to be so many rules, why it had to be controlled with words. She learned of focuses, of mantras and spells: means of harnessing the Power and riding it like a wild stallion that could never be truly broken. When she taught Ciri, her young pupil had the same question.

_“But why do I have to learn all these words? What’s so special about them?”_

_“Nothing. And everything.”_

_“Who came up with them, anyway? How would someone even figure that out?”_

_“The words themselves aren’t the important part. You can cast a spell by saying just about anything. There’s a more complicated explanation involving the relationship between phonemes and magic fields and trying to stay in tune with the supernatural, but it really comes down to the meaning with which you imbue those words.”_

_“Imbue? What’s that mean?”_

_“To create something significant out of the mundane. To fill it with a part of yourself. We construct our own reality, Ciri. Everything we experience, everything we believe, it all forms a unique perspective, and we communicate that back to the world. For most people, life just happens and all they can do is react. But we enchantresses… we can respond.”_

_“What’s the difference?”_

_“Let me ask you this, Ciri: if you were a little salmon swimming in a stream, and up ahead you saw a bear, just waiting for you to jump so he could swat you aside and have you for dinner, what would you do?”_

_“Swim the other way, of course!”_

_“Back to where you came from? But salmon have to migrate upstream so they can breed. It’s the only way their species survives.”_

_“Well then I’d be quick and swim past the bear!”_

_“Are you sure you’re fast enough? There’s a chance you’d make it, but also a chance you wouldn’t.”_

_“Then what should I do?”_

_“Grow legs and walk out of the river, of course.”_

_“What? That makes no sense!”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because it’s impossible!”_

_“Exactly. Choice is an illusion, entirely dependent on your perception of reality. The options you have at your disposal are determined by the rules of that paradigm. If you think something is impossible, after a while it doesn’t even occur to you to try. Like the salmon, most people swim blindly upriver, unable to alter the course of their destiny. But magic lets us make the impossible… possible.”_

_“What does this have to do with imbuing meaning into words?”_

_“Everything. What you say doesn’t matter, though certain phrases do work better than others. What’s important is that you take a piece of your heart, and put it into every word you say. In that way, you leave your mark on the world. And you expand your horizons considerably.”_

_“But how long will it take before I don’t have a heart left? Is that what happened to you?”_

_“You’re getting too clever for your own good.”_

_“I still don’t understand. If the words don’t matter, then why can’t everybody do magic? What makes us so special?”_

_“It’s simple. If everybody were special… no one would be.”_

It wasn’t until a loud metallic _ping_ hit her ears that Yennefer realized the megascope had been online for a full minute. She had yet to complete the next step of actually contacting the person to whom she wanted to speak. She focused again, this time shutting out any distractions.

After a few moments, the crystals projected the image of a tall, female elf, wearing a dress the color of daffodils, with red hair and a neckline that plunged so far one could drown in it. She wore no precious metals or stones, preferring coral, amber, and pearls, all of which were built up over time by living things, each valuable in their own way. They suited her.

“ _Ceádmil_ , Ida.”

“ _Ceádmil_ , Yennefer. How may I help you?”

“I’m not sure exactly how to word this request, so I’ll just say it: I’m looking for information regarding the Elder Blood, as it relates to a figure known as the Man of Glass.”

Ida Emean aep Sivney squinted, turning her head quizzically as she examined Yennefer’s face more closely. “I’ve not heard of this Man of Glass. And to be perfectly honest, you and Francesca know more about the Elder Blood than I do.”

“Perhaps I should be asking her.”

“Perhaps. She’s unreachable by megascope currently. For some reason she wants to maintain a low profile.”

“Is she there in Dol Blathanna?”

“She is. If you plan on visiting, perhaps you could collect your friend.”

Yennefer blinked. “Friend?”

“The bard they call Dandelion. He showed up here last night with some dwarves and a _dh’oine_ woman, asking us to heal her voice. Like we’re dryads or something.”

“Her voice?”

“Apparently she was savagely attacked by someone in Novigrad. They forced her to drink formaldehyde and it burned her esophagus to the point where she can hardly speak. Poor thing.”

Crossing her arms, Yennefer cocked her hips and smirked. “I thought you didn’t care about humans.”

“It’s not that I don’t care. Overall, the needs of the Aen Seidhe outweigh my concern for the _dh’oine_ , but I’m not going to ignore the suffering of one when she’s standing right in front of me.”

“Can you heal her?”

Ida shook her head. “Unfortunately not. Like I said, we’re not dryads, and even they would be hard pressed to help her. The attack happened months ago, and the scars are permanent by this point. She seems a nice enough person, for a _dh’oine_ , but she’s beyond any assistance we can provide, magic or otherwise.”

“I doubt I can fix her either, but I actually was planning to visit your library, so I suppose I can talk sense into Dandelion for you.”

“Thank you, Yennefer. I’ve explained to him several times that her voice is beyond saving, but I get the impression that he ignores reality whenever it proves inconvenient for him.”

She sighed. “That he does. I’ll see you soon, Ida. _Va faill_.”

“ _Va faill_ , Yennefer.”

Ida’s image condensed into a single point of light, then disappeared. She deactivated the megascope and set the crystals back on the velvet tray where they were usually stored. She began casting a spell for a portal, which did not require a somatic component, but stopped when she heard the sound of pewter clattering across the stone.

She turned around, more annoyed than startled, and cocked her eyebrow at the cause of the disturbance. The creature resembled a human child, but with eyes the size of tea saucers and clammy grey skin. Glancing sheepishly at the spilled items, which consisted mostly of containers where Yennefer kept her herbs and potion ingredients, the godling looked at her and smiled.

“Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up later.”

“Hello, Marie. Were you spying again?”

“No!” Marie stamped her feet petulantly, but Yennefer’s glare wore her down. “Yes. But there was someone else in here just now! A redheaded witch!”

“I know. She’s a friend. And for the last time, don’t call sorceresses witches.”

“But you use magic and so do witches! What’s the difference?”

“The same thing that separates a witcher from a peasant with a spear. Years of specialized training.”

Marie crossed her arms and pouted. “I guess.”

“Since you heard our conversation,” said Yennefer. “I might as well ask you. Do you know anything about the Man of Glass? He currently goes by the name of Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Aye, everybody’s heard of him. Smooth fellow with a smile more tempting than a dragon’s treasure, but you don’t want to get in debt with him.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Your friend was lying earlier,” said Marie. “When she said she hasn’t heard of him. She knows more than she’s telling.”

Yennefer smiled. “I know. Ida likes to be mysterious, but a born deceiver she is not. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Why do you want to know about Master Mirror anyway?”

“I met him. The woman I consider a daughter is in debt to him, and we’re looking for a way to get her out of it.”

“Best give up on that, luv. Once he’s got you in a contract, you’re locked there for eternity. Only one man ever beat him, and no one even remembers his name.”

“Why not?”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t know the whole story. I learned everything I just told you from the elf who used to come here.”

“Avallac’h? How does he know Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“There’s not a lot the Aen Elle don’t know about,” said Marie, shrugging. “Good luck finding him, though.”

“I hope so. That’s where Triss is headed.”

“Well, hope that works out,” the godling replied. “And what about you?”

“I suppose I’m off to Dol Blathanna.” She frowned at the spilled containers. “Now clean up this mess, please.”

“You got it, boss!”

She smiled, and opened the portal again. For a single moment, she was nowhere.

And everywhere.

* * *

“Is she alright?”

Ciri trod carefully into the bedroom, looking down at the unconscious woman whose only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like so many others who had crossed her path.

She held one arm over her chest, clutching the other arm, which hung limp as her eyes moved to the other figure in the room, who was pointedly avoiding eye contact with the stuffed unicorn which occupied almost the entire space between the foot of the bed and the far wall.

Removing his hand from Marlene’s forehead, Geralt nodded. “She’s a little shocked, but I gave her a few herbs to help her rest. I think it’s fair to say she’s earned the rest of the day off.”

“I agree.”

“She’s lucky you were there to catch her.”

She crossed her arms and eyed him skeptically. “And unlucky that I even had to. This is what I meant about others getting hurt because of my mistakes.”

“If it’s any consolation, this isn’t the first run-in she’s had with Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“I know. I heard you telling the others last night. I get that he’s powerful, but why is he so bloody petty?”

Geralt smirked. “It’s like your grandmother told me at the banquet all those years ago: once you have the power to avenge any slight against you, it gets a lot harder to just let things slide. You even threatened to have her cut my head off after I talked back to you when we first met.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, or perhaps because she couldn’t bear it anymore, Ciri burst out laughing. “I remember that! Oh, you must have been irritated beyond belief at the way I treated you.”

“I didn’t mind. I was mostly concerned about keeping you alive. Brokilon Forest is a dangerous place for any human, even a witcher.”

“You always did take abuse like a mule standing in the middle of a crowded road. Every woman you meet, from me to Triss and _especially_ Yennefer, we all take out our frustrations on you and it rolls off you like water on a duck’s back. How do you put up with it?”

 He chuckled. “Because most of the time, it’s adorable.”

“You!” Ciri punched him hard in the chest, and he swayed a little, but kept his footing with no effort. “Is that really the secret, then? The only people capable of forgiveness are those of humble means? Seems like they’d be the ones holding the biggest grudges.”

“More likely it’s just the humble part.” He frowned. “Which reminds me.”

Her expression changed to match his. “Right. What do you think he meant?”

“If I’ve learned anything about Gaunter O’Dimm, it’s that you should never take his words at face value.”

“That sounds like good advice. A path you swore never to travel… That could refer to any number of things.”

“Heh. You’re telling me. There’re a lot of doors I’ve let close over the years.”

She started pacing in the limited space between the bed and a large desk, over which hung a shield bearing Geralt’s coat of arms. “It says you have to humble someone who reaches beyond her station. _Her_ specifically. So that narrows it down by about half the population. Triss and Yennefer have their own tasks, and we know it can’t be referring to me. Philippa, maybe?”

“I hope not. She didn’t even get humbled after Radovid gouged her eyes out. I doubt I’d be able to do better.”

“It could mean the Duchess.”

Geralt sighed. “That’ll be a cold day in hell.”

“There is something else we could try.”

“What?”

A look of mischief spread across her face. “Where do you keep your wine?”

* * *

Yennefer emerged from the portal just in time to hear laughter and heavy footfalls against the wood as Ciri dashed out of the house, practically dragging Geralt along with her. She caught just enough of a glimpse to see that look on Ciri’s face that she got whenever she had a plan. At this point Yennefer wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

She followed them outside, and caught the last traces of them disappearing into the wine cellar. Before she could go after them, she caught more movement out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh,” she said with undisguised venom. “It’s you.”

Mistle crossed her arms and smiled sarcastically. “Good morning to you too. Don’t worry, I’m not here to use up any more of your hospitality. I just want to know what’s taking Falka so long.”

“We’re not operating under pretenses anymore,” she replied. “Her name is Ciri, no matter how well you think you know her. Someday she’s going to realize just how poisonous you are, and I only hope by that point it’s not too late.”

“Enough. I’ve heard it all before. Next you’re going to tell me if I don’t treat her right, you’ll hunt me down and kill me.”

“No. Because if you ever betray her… I won’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just tell me where she is so we can get out of here.”

Yennefer uttered a curse under her breath and grumbled. “Follow me.”

* * *

“Are you gonna tell me what your big idea is?”

Geralt had allowed Ciri to drag him by the wrist down into the wine cellar, where she was currently bent over reading the labels next to each of the casks by underlining them with a finger positioned right below her eyes. The project had been overseen by B.B., so naturally the wines had been meticulously catalogued and labeled to a degree of perfection that met even Yennefer’s standards.

There was the White Wolf, named after him for his efforts at fixing the problems plaguing both the Coronato and Vermentino vineyards, and uniting their respective owners in more ways that one. Then there was the Sangreal, served only to the Ducal table for generations, awarded to him for slaying the Beast of Beauclair. Next to those were various other vintages from vineyards that had been producing wine for centuries. The wine grown by this vineyard would not be ready until sometime next year, but the cellar was fairly well stocked nonetheless.

Finally,  there were the homemade witcher’s brews he made using the alchemy table located down here. Most of them were extremely toxic to anyone who had not undergone the mutations, but they could be made in less concentrated form. Ciri stood up straight and tapped her finger against her chin, walking backwards through the space as she continued to examine everything.

“What Triss said earlier got me thinking,” she explained. “I haven’t entered a prophetic trance in… oh, years at this point. But last night I drank as much as I could stand, then kept going. I found Mistle talking to a man who wanted to impress a crowd with his stories, and before I knew it I was sharing his ghastly secrets with everybody.”

“You want to trigger a prophecy by getting drunk?”

“Why not? It’s worked before, clearly. And if Gaunter O’Dimm really was the one speaking through me back then, this should give us some insight into what he has planned for you now.”

Geralt reached up with his elbow extended over his head and scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Ciri. I remember you were in bed for more than a day after it happened back then. Weren’t you wanting to leave this morning?”

“Please. I can handle my liquor much better now than when I was nine.”

“Last night suggests otherwise,” said Yennefer as she entered the cellar, followed by Mistle. “Geralt, why are you two down here?”

He shrugged. “Ciri thinks alcohol might help activate some of her powers, specifically the ones that let her see the future.”

Mistle squinted with one eye and contorted her mouth into a quizzical expression. “How would it do that?”

“You saw it happen at the ball,” said Ciri. “And it’s happened before. There’s a lot I haven’t told you about my powers. But I think this is worth trying.”

“Is it gonna take very long?”

“As long as it takes me to get completely blitzed. Why?”

She cast a sidelong glance at Yennefer, who returned the gesture with even greater menace. “No reason. I’m just sick of this place.”

Ciri wrapped a palm around her forehead and groaned. “Can you two _please_ call a truce long enough for us to try this?”

“Fine,” they said in unison.

“Okay then. Now that we’re apparently in a hurry, I need something strong enough to knock a dwarf under the table in one glass.”

Geralt smiled. “I have just the thing.”

* * *

“Now what’s taking them so long?”

Syanna was beginning to regret attaching her horse to this particular wagon. But she didn’t have any other options, and she had to admit, this whole affair intrigued her. Besides, it was her idea to wait where Geralt of Rivia wouldn’t see her. She doubted that he would actually report back to her sister, but he would absolutely be the first person Anarietta would ask to track her down. There was no sense in giving him the answer before the questions were asked.

She had brought the horses pointed out by Mistle away from the stable and outside of the Corvo Bianco vineyard, where she stayed by the side of the road with her hood up. Every few minutes a knight errant would trot by on his horse, and assorted folk from all walks of life passed by on foot, seeming to actively ignore her. That suited her just fine.

Still, if Mistle and the girl she called Falka weren’t back soon, she might just take the horses and leave without them.

“And go where, exactly?”

Asking how the being behind her had read her thoughts would be pointless. “You said I had one day to get my affairs in order.”

“Of course,” said Gaunter O’Dimm. “I’m only checking in. Color me impressed with how well you figured everything out. Tell me: are you more interested in Mistle, or her companion? No one would blame you if it was the latter. You _are_ related, after all.”

“Why ask questions when you already know the answers?”

“Why read a book you’ve read a hundred times? Just because you know what’s going to happen, that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”

“I’m not much of a reader.”

“Then the time you spent locked in that tower must have been painfully dull. And you needn’t worry about winding up back there. As part of our arrangement, I’ve made you… unremarkable to those who answer to the Duchess. It’s like you’ve been forgotten already.”

“Does that include Geralt of Rivia?”

“He has other things to worry about at the moment. Give them an hour or so. They’re about to make quite an important discovery.”

She sighed. “If you say so. One more thing. I don’t feel any differently than I did before. Did you actually lift the curse, or was it never there to begin with?”

“Ah, the Curse of the Black Sun.” He stared out at the road. “If only I’d thought of that one. The mages who identified the curse were correct in their assertion that it caused mutations and some changes to behavior, but that wasn’t what transformed all those girls into monsters. You know all too well the process that led to that. That’s something that can never be undone. Not even with a wish.”

“So am I free of it or not?”

“Of the curse? Yes. Of the lingering effects of how you were treated because of it? That won’t ever go away.”

“That isn’t what I wanted.”

“But it _is_ what you wished for.”

Syanna chuckled darkly. “I suppose that’s what I get for making a deal with you. But you set me free, so in a way I’m grateful.” She frowned. “Even though I’ll never see my sister again.”

“Yes, I suspect that will eat away at you forever,” he said, grinning ever so slightly. “A pleasure doing business with you. Perhaps we’ll see each other again soon.”

She turned around, but he was gone.

* * *

“Almost ready,” said Geralt, pouring the concoction he’d brewed into a mug. He presented it to Ciri as they made their way back to the main area of the cellar. “Careful. It’s strong.”

Yennefer sent both of them a look that carried both annoyance and concern. “You’re sure this is safe?”

“Learned the recipe from Regis,” he revealed. “There’s a special variety of mandrake root that grows near the Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery. Packs a hell of a punch.”

“Yes, well a witcher and a vampire have a much higher tolerance for toxic substances than the rest of us mere mortals.”

He shrugged. “The first time I met Regis, I had Zoltan, Milva, Cahir and Dandelion with me. They all lived through it just fine. Besides, the brewing process nullifies the toxicity.”

“You do know your alchemy,” said Ciri. She swirled the liquid around in the mug, staring at the resulting whirlpool. “And if I can handle White Seagull, I can survive this.”

Mistle patted her back. “Let’s hope.”

“Stand here.” Yennefer gestured to where a pentagram had been drawn on the floor, surrounded by a ring of salt with candles placed on each of the vertices. “Now on your knees.”

Ciri obeyed, kneeling in the center as Geralt ignited the candles one by one. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“All we know for certain is that there’s some supernatural presence connected with you, Ciri. If it is Gaunter O’Dimm, this may give us the chance to contain him and extract information. If not, then if whatever it is tries to take control, it won’t get very far.”

“And you’re sure alcohol will do it?” asked Mistle. “She got drunk all the time when she ran with the Rats all those years ago and didn’t conjure up any demons.”

“That might be because I’d renounced conjuring just before I met you. I wasn’t as in tune with… whatever this thing is.”

“Well you got sauced last night too and all you did was cripple someone.”

Ciri shut her eyes and winced. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Sorry.”

“It takes something stronger than a few glasses of wine to induce something like this,” said Geralt. “Mandrake can be a powerful hallucinogen, and it opens the brain to a meditative state that allows for that sort of channeling. Like Ciri said, it’s worked before.”

“And if it fails, we have other means,” said Yennefer, holding up a grimoire she had secured from the library above. “One way or another, we’ll get something out of this.”

“If you say so. I wish I’d thought of this before I sent Triss on her way.”

“She already tried and failed to identify whatever this thing is, and she sent you to me all those years ago because she wasn’t equipped to teach you magic and I was. At this point I doubt she would have added anything of value.”

“Didn’t you two just finish reconciling?”

“This has nothing to do with that. The fact is, Triss made a mistake all those years ago. You should never follow a malevolent presence into its own domain. It’s far more practical to use a medium, in this case you, to bring it into this world and compel it to give you what you want.”

Ciri sighed. “Let’s just get on with it.”

“Very well. Bottoms up.”

Gripping the tankard with both hands, Ciri raised it to her lips and swallowed it, gradually at first, then in one long gulp.

A few seconds passed, and Ciri looked up at the three of them.

“Anything?”

She shook her head. “I feel a little…” Ciri didn’t finish her sentence, but her head and body swayed a bit. Strangely, her knees remained rooted to the floor.

A minute passed in silence. Then two. Then five. Ciri had closed her eyes and was trying to meditate, occasionally releasing small burps as she fought to keep the concoction down. Geralt had matched her posture and knelt directly in front of her, meditating in kind. Mistle stood with her arms crossed, skeptical. Yennefer only stared, and waited.

“Now we begin,” she said, and began reading from the grimoire.

“ _Bondiau aep gwyr, bondiau aep aenye, bondiau aep halen, bondiau aep bloed. Saov, esseath_ _gorfodi. Rwy'n galw thu!”_

As she spoke, her free hand traced runes in the air, and her voice resonated as though part of some unseen chorus.

The temperature dropped, and the candles briefly flickered. A hush solidified around them, cutting off the outside world and trapping them in their immediate surroundings. Ciri gasped suddenly and desperately, as though she had never before drawn air into her lungs.

Spectral, sickly green flames surrounded her form, and the candles changed color to match. The three of them kept their distance, watching as Ciri’s back bent unnaturally far, and her face turned towards the ceiling, her pupils obscured by that same green glow.

Rolling her neck around in one long circle, her gaze finally settled on Yennefer. When her mouth spoke, it was not her voice. Nor was it the voice of Gaunter O’Dimm.

“You have summoned me, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” it said, reverberating throughout the space in much the same way the sorceress’ voice had when she read the incantation. “You never did learn to be careful what you wish for.”

“Ciri thinks you may be able to help us, whoever you are,” Yennefer said without flinching. “Perhaps we can start with your name.”

“A name is earned. Those worthy to know mine don’t need to bother asking for it.”

“Fine then. What are you?”

Ciri’s face contorted into a smile that was completely unnatural, and her head tilted to the side. “You’re asking all the wrong questions. Don’t you have more pressing matters? The Fourteenth of the Hill was the same way. Always looking for stars in the water instead of the sky.”

“I knew a man who used to love using that expression,” she said. “But I know you’re not him, because I watched him die. Did he get it from you?”

The smile grew wide enough that the sides of Ciri’s lips began to split open and bleed. “That’s more like it. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen attempted to meddle with powers far greater than himself, and very nearly got what he was after. But even he knew to avoid the Man of Glass. A lesson you clearly haven’t learned.”

“How does one defeat Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“By learning to see what’s being reflected, rather than staring at the reflection itself. Once you’ve mastered that, you won’t need my help.”

“The clues he gave us,” she said, scanning the pages of the grimoire as furiously as she could while keeping her composure. “What do they mean?”

She cackled, swaying around while her knees remained firmly affixed to the floor as though her body had sprouted roots. “Come now, you’re not stupid. The challenges were part of the deal you made. It wouldn’t be fair to give the game away this soon.”

“No one has ever accused me of being fair.”

“That will certainly give you an advantage. But you’ll get no help from me.”

“ _Ysgarthiad y_ _damnedigaeth!_ I compel you!”

“Threaten shit and damnation all you want. I’ve experienced both in equal measure. If you are engaged in a contract with the Man of Glass, then I cannot interfere. Not even if I wanted to.”

Yennefer breathed in deeply, then exhaled and composed herself. “What do you have planned for Ciri?”

“What are my plans for her? I _am_ her. Or should I say, _she_ is _me_.”

Yennefer glared. “And who is that, exactly?”

Loud, mocking laughter erupted from her and filled the cellar. “Your attempts at trickery are predictable and pathetic. I am the beginning and the end of all things. I am formless, scattered, but soon I will be whole again. And Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon shall be my vessel upon this world, and all the worlds to follow.”

In front of her, Geralt opened his eyes. “Not if I can help it.”

“You can’t stop it. Nothing can. You want advice, witcher? Accept your fate. The lot of you are already doomed.”

“Never was good at doing what I was told. And neither is Ciri. You should be careful what you wish for too.”

“ _Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar_. Something ends, something begins. The way it has for all eternity. Nothing will change that. Farewell.”

Ciri exhaled just as long and loudly as she had breathed in when the possession began, and the presence left as the green flames surrounding her expired. She coughed horribly for several moments before vomiting on the floor. Mistle was at her side immediately, wrapping her in her arms and allowing Ciri to collapse against her.

“The ribbon…” she said breathlessly, staring at Geralt. “You have to use… Syanna’s ribbon.”

“So you did see the future?”

“A possible one,” she replied. “One you can still affect. I saw a cave, fangs, and the ribbon. I hope that’s enough.”

“You didn’t see anything else?”

Ciri shook her head. “It all comes in flashes, and half of it’s metaphor anyway. I have to decipher the meaning after the fact. And I really don’t want to try that again.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” said Yennefer, kneeling next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Drained.” She nestled herself further into Mistle, who embraced her more firmly. “But I should be fine to hit the road. It’s not often I see you concerned.”

“Only for you, my little ugly one.” They both shared a knowing smile, while the same confused expression appeared on both Geralt and Mistle’s faces. “As for what we learned, whatever’s connected with you, it isn’t Gaunter O’Dimm. But it knows him.”

“At this point, who doesn’t?”

“That’s not what I mean, Ciri. Have you considered the possibility that Gaunter O’Dimm isn’t the only one of his kind?”

“Did you think he was? There are plenty of demons, though they rarely visit this sphere of existence.”

“A few of them do,” said Geralt. “Like the Hym that fed off of Jarl Udalryk’s guilt and suffering for years before Cerys and I banished it. But Gaunter O’Dimm is several orders of magnitude more powerful. If he is a demon, and at this point I’m not entirely sure he is, he has to rank very high among them.”

“And so does whatever sometimes possesses me?”

Mistle squeezed her tighter. “I’d say so.”

“And we still have no idea exactly how the Elder Blood factors into all this?”

Geralt and Yennefer shook their heads.

“Well, that’s splendid. If we’ve learned everything we can, then Mistle and I should get going. Let’s choose a place to meet, once you’ve learned everything you can and I’ve taken care of the second wish.”

“Cintra,” said Mistle before either of them could chime in. “It’s where all of this began, isn’t it? Seems appropriate.”

“It does,” said Yennefer. “And I have ways of finding out when Triss gets back. _If_ she does.”

“She will,” said Ciri. “Even if I have to go and get her myself.”

“Goodbye for now, then.”

She stepped forward and embraced Yennefer, then moved to Geralt. “Goodbye for now.”

As she and Mistle walked out of the cellar together, she leaned her head into the other woman’s shoulder, and Mistle wrapped her arm around her head to draw her closer. Geralt and Yennefer watched them go.

“Still think they’re bad for each other?”

“When have you ever known me to change my mind about something?”

“About as often as I’ve seen the dark side of the moon.”

“Well, at the very least we have bigger problems right now.”

Geralt chuckled. “Don’t we always?”


	16. A Night in the Woods

Night in the forest brought mist and danger, wrapping everything in shadow. The night sky had invaded the earth, lit only dimly by spears of silver moonlight that punched through the canopy. Those not prepared for the darkness were at the mercy of those who thrived in it. Old wives in nearby villages whispered of wraiths, leshens, and kikimores, but a lost soul could just as easily fall victim to a pack of wolves.

Not everybody was afraid of that darkness, however. For some, it even kept them safe.

The remains of a campsite were virtually undetectable in the dark, but became far more visible in the green glow that burst into existence above it. Three horses emerged from the portal, each with a rider. The one on the left had dark hair, dressed in blue with a sword on her hip. The one on the right was tall, with blonde hair shorn on the sides, also wearing a sword on her hip.

The woman in the middle had ashen hair, and wore her sword on her back.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the portal vanished, leaving the three of them in the darkness.

"Whoa," said Mistle, glancing around but seeing nothing. "Why is it nighttime? It was barely afternoon when we left."

Ciri clutched her forehead and held on tight to Kelpie's mane as she leaned forward. "Shit."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing major. I just jumped us forward in time is all. It's probably only a few hours."

From her left, Syanna raised an eyebrow. Neither of them saw it. "Probably?"

"It's not like there are any calendars nearby. Once we get a break in the treeline I'll be able to see where the stars are. I've developed a good sense for this sort of thing."

"And here I thought you actually knew what you were talking about when you explained your abilities to me. At least I know they're real."

There had been a hasty conversation when they caught up with her on the road just outside the Corvo Bianco vineyard, and after a short ride to the outskirts of Toussaint, Ciri had joined hands with the two of them and thought of the place where she had first met Mistle's new gang.

"I just served as a medium for a demonic presence, a process which involved getting highly intoxicated," said Ciri. "We're fortunate my powers worked at all."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better."

"Oh, come off it," said Mistle. "Even if we are in the wrong time, we're in the right place, and once she's feeling better Falka can fix whatever mistake she made."

"All I know is right now I'm exhausted," Ciri replied. "We should camp here."

Syanna nodded, which neither of them were able to see. "On that, at least, we agree."

* * *

Once they had a fire going, the three of them sat around it. Ciri clung to Mistle's arm and leaned against her shoulder, while Syanna watched them from the other side of the fire. The burning wood crackled and popped in the night, a lone bastion against the seemingly infinite darkness.

Mistle was the first to speak. "Should we tell ghost stories?"

"I'd rather not. None of the ones I know are scarier than the things that have actually happened to me."

"It's the same for me," said Syanna. She sat with her knees in front of her, resting her forearms on top of them. "I've shared a bed with things far worse than any children's fable. To be honest, I'm more frightened of ordinary people."

"Why's that?" asked Mistle.

"Nothing is more dangerous than when so called civilized folk decide that you don't belong in their world. At best, they just ignore you and hope you starve. Some try to kill you themselves, others will take you out into woods like these and leave you for whatever predators happen to be roaming around."

"The predators aren't necessarily the most dangerous things in the woods," said Ciri. "In Velen the peasants would send their children to a trio of Crones when they became too much of a burden."

"What's so dangerous about a bunch of old ladies?"

"They weren't exactly human. I encountered them when I first arrived in Velen. I was wounded and exhausted, and they took me inside one of their huts. I heard them talking about boiling one of my feet and eating it."

Unconsciously, Mistle rubbed her ankle. "What for?"

"Apparently they enjoy the taste of Elder Blood."

"So what happened?"

"I fled. They'd called a general of the Wild Hunt, Imlerith, to fetch me. He'd told them to keep an eye out for me. Much later, Geralt and I went to Bald Mountain so he could kill Imlerith, while I dealt with the Crones. I killed all but the Weavess, who got away with my wolf medallion."

"Highborns aren't all that different when their children become a burden," said Syanna. "Except they get four corrupt knights to escort them into the wilderness and leave them to die."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

She waved her hand. "It's in the past. I got my revenge on them."

"But not your sister?"

"That's not something I want anymore."

"My parents loved me, I suppose." Mistle frowned and stared directly into the fire. "Didn't matter when bandits rolled into the village, killed all the men and only kept the women alive so they could fuck us night and day. They thought I was dead when they dumped me in that ditch. I guess in a sense I was. I could never go back to who I was before."

Ciri gripped her tighter.

"For a long time, I bathed whenever I got the chance," she continued. "Once we started making real money I'd go to brothels and have their girls freshen me up. Never did manage to feel clean." She ran a few fingers through Ciri's hair. "Not until I met you."

She looked up, a puzzled expression on her face. "I know for a fact you'd had others before me."

"I did. But none of them stuck around. None of them understood me like you do." She kissed the top of her head. "I was lost without you."

"Really? You seemed like you'd been doing just fine without me. I was the lost one back then."

Mistle chuckled. "I've just gotten very good at hiding it."

"I can sympathize with that," said Syanna. "I've never seen the point in sharing my whole life story with everyone I come across." She shifted her gaze slightly. "What about you, Ciri? How do you keep a lid on the things you've been through?"

Releasing Mistle's arm, Ciri sat up. "Not very well of late. It's too much to hold in sometimes."

"Mistle told me about Bonhart."

Ciri stiffened. "How much did she tell you?"

"Just the highlights."

"Everything up to when he killed me."

"You don't have to tell me anything else. I know the man's reputation."

She shook her head. "It's alright. I'm tired of keeping it all inside me anyway."

"Whenever you're ready, then."

Inhaling deeply, Ciri composed herself. "After he cut off the heads of all my friends and made me watch, he brought me inside the tavern. He told me to strip so he could check me for magical charms, in front of everybody. Then he said I was too skinny to rape. Like I was supposed to be relieved by that."

"It's never a compliment," said Syanna. "Any man who says that just wants to remind you of the power he holds, then insist that he's above all that."

"What is it with men and rape anyway? When I lived at Kaer Morhen, I overheard the witchers talking when they thought I wasn't listening. They told stories about women they'd found in the middle of the road, spread eagled and savaged by roving groups of soldiers, bandits or what have you. That frightened me more than the tales of bodies torn apart by nekkers and wyverns."

Mistle glanced at her. "Surely that wasn't the first time you'd heard of it?"

"Of course not. But I was nine. Hearing about something isn't the same as comprehending it. It wasn't until I was threatened with it everywhere I looked that I understood how awful rape is. And I'm not just talking about getting staked to the ground and ploughed by a gang of marauders."

"How do you mean?"

"Almost everybody who tried to manipulate me in their schemes over the years always came around to the idea of getting me pregnant. Like I didn't have a say in the matter. According to prophecy my children are destined to rule the world, but I don't see myself ever having offspring. Not that it mattered to them. The worst of them skipped the formalities and tried to get me pregnant with a device instead of the old fashioned way, so he could use my placental blood for some ghastly ritual."

Mistle was not easily disgusted, but her face scrunched up and she looked ready to hurl. Syanna only chuckled darkly.

"Like I said, ordinary people are the real monsters. But it's not a default state. It happens in wartime because these men are trained to see their enemy as something less than human. That's on top of how they view their own women as little more than property. And most bandits, especially those who used to be soldiers, are just savages."

"Did your bandits ever rape anybody?"

"Not while I was in charge. Before that, probably. I was almost certain they'd do it to me when I first came upon them, freezing in the forest with only the clothes on my back. But under me they got enough spoils that they could afford to just pay for a good fuck." She frowned. "It doesn't matter anyway. They're all dead now."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I didn't hold any great attachment to them. I just don't have that in me. You were telling me what Bonhart did to you."

"Right." She sighed and continued her story. "He'd been paid by Stefan Skellen to kill me, and by the Baron of Casedai to turn me in so I could be flayed alive. But somehow he figured out that I was worth far more than what either of them were offering for me, so he kept me for himself. In the end he tried to sell me to a sorcerer named Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, but one of Skellen's mercenaries helped me escape. It's how I got this scar."

"Bonhart gave it to you?"

"Skellen. I escaped by jumping four days into the future. I didn't really mean to; it just sort of happened."

"So it's happened before?"

She nodded.

"And how did he treat you while you were his captive?"

"Like I only existed as something for him to take out his frustrations on. He beat me daily, kept me high on fisstech, and forced me to fight in his cousin's arena for others' entertainment. Then there were times when he would just stare at me. There was… nothing in his eyes. It was like looking at death."

Mistle rubbed her arm, staring at her with genuine concern, an expression her face did not often make.

"None of that was what made Bonhart scary," Ciri continued. "Not the beatings, not the threats. It was the way he toyed with me. Always promising that I could be free of him if I was just a little bit faster, stronger, more skilled. He used that as a twisted kind of motivation, all so he could exploit me and my talents."

Syanna gazed somberly at her. "But you killed him in the end?"

"Just barely. After he'd killed two others who came to rescue me."

Leaning against her, Mistle wrapped both arms around Ciri and drew her closer. "It's alright. You're safe now. He's gone."

"I know." She submitted to the embrace, resting her head atop Mistle's. "I know."

She watched the fire, seeing how the flames twisted and danced through the night. As Mistle clutched her tighter, she continued to stare. In the morning, the fire would be embers, already faded from memory. But in the moment, that didn't matter. Fire was short-lived, but it _was_ alive, and made the most of its time. Eventually, like all things, it would burn out. Its time would end. Mistle would let go of her, and they would fall asleep.

But for the moment, everything was perfect.

* * *

They reached a clearing in the forest just after midnight, by Ciri's reckoning. She had not exaggerated earlier; her command over time and space had given her an almost exact sense of what hour it was, though ever since the last jump, that instinct had been skewed by a queasy, gnawing dizziness that she hadn't been able to shake.

"Alright, give me a few minutes. I studied constellations at the Temple of Melitele in Ellander when I was young, but I'm a little rusty and I don't have any star charts."

"Have you ever done this before?" asked Mistle.

"Once, when I was stranded in the Korvath desert, just before I met you. Avallac'h taught me a little bit during the time I spent with him, too. I just need to concentrate."

"Go ahead, then."

Closing her eyes, Ciri breathed in and out, trying to clear her head. Once she felt a little more focused she opened them again, and looked up at the sky. The more she stared, the more her fears were confirmed.

Above her was an ocean of chaos. An entire galaxy of swirling colors, gleaming stars and the biggest, brightest moon she had ever seen. Nothing was in its proper place. The constellations she expected were not there, or had become twisted mockeries of themselves. As if they had not only been reversed, but scrambled into virtual oblivion.

"It's not right," she whispered, trying and failing to contain the panic. "None of it's right! I don't know when we are or how far I'd have to travel to get us back. I don't even know if we're in the right world anymore!"

"Shh, be calm," said Mistle, placing her hands on either side of Ciri's face. "You can fix this. I know you can. Just focus."

"Alright." She breathed again, controlling the fear and letting it feed her energy. "I'm going to try and get us back where we should be. Hold my hand."

"What about the horses?"

"Right. I forgot."

They walked over to the horses, then joined hands. Ciri thought of Ebbing, of the Rats, of where she had lived during a very significant time in her life. She thought of how much she wanted to return there, to the proper time and place.

She thought of Bonhart.

Ciri gasped very suddenly and fell to her knees, unable to breathe except in short huffs. She coughed and wheezed, hyperventilating while her fingers curled through the grass into the soil, pulling up chunks of earth. Mistle was yelling something at her, muffled by the panic.

"Ciri! Ciri, what's wrong?"

"It's not working." Her breathing sped up again. "It's not working!"

"What's not working?"

"The teleportation! My powers! It's not fucking working!"

"Well, that's fantastic," said Syanna. "And here I thought being stranded in the woods, possibly hundreds of years into the future, was the worst of our problems. Now we find out you can't even get us back."

"You shut up!" screamed Mistle. "Give her some space!"

Ciri had lost the capacity for intelligent speech by this point, and was gibbering on the ground while she tried in vain to focus on a single point of interest. But when she closed her eyes, only one face appeared in her mind. A face with eyes as cold as the grave.

"Plough it. She's broken."

"She just needs rest," Mistle insisted. "None of us have slept. In the morning she'll be good as new."

Syanna crossed her arms and looked at the panicking girl on the ground with extreme skepticism. "If you say so."

Over the next few minutes, her breathing returned to normal, and Ciri's cries quieted somewhat. Mistle embraced her tightly, rubbing her back and offering words of encouragement that she barely processed.

"It'll be alright," she insisted. "Everything's going to be just fine."

* * *

The fire crackled a few feet away, and Ciri stared up at the trees with no expression on her face. She felt drained, dizzy, and intensely sad, like the ruins left behind by a hurricane.

Her powers were gone. Really gone. Or at the very least out of commission for a while.

What caused it? Was it the alcohol? The possession? Or something else entirely?

"Mistle, are you up?"

Mistle raised her head and looked at her from the bedroll to her left. "I am."

"Do you think… do you think we might be in the past, instead of the future?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The Elder Blood is closely tied with magic," she said. "Magic didn't exist in this world until after the Conjunction of the Spheres. It's possible we've travelled to a time before that happened."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means my powers may never work again."

"But you told me you've been to worlds that don't have magic," said Mistle. "You traveled through those just fine. You've been through a lot in the last couple of days. You just need to rest."

She laid her head back down. "I suppose."

"Hey, where'd Syanna go?"

Ciri sat up very rapidly. "What?"

"She was just here. Did she get up to piss?"

"Either that or she's run off to find civilization."

"In the middle of the night?"

"What's she afraid of? She dated a vampire."

"I still think we should check." Mistle stood and grabbed her sword. "Are you any good at tracking?"

"Not as good as a witcher who's undergone the mutations, but able enough."

"That'll have to do."

* * *

The shadows grew even more menacing as they stepped away from the fire, shrouding everything in mystery and fear. Mistle carried a small lantern that illuminated their path for about fifteen feet ahead. Ciri kept her ears open, and she made out faint footprints left by the only other person they knew was out here.

Following Syanna's trail was childishly simple, which meant she wasn't trying to hide. Maybe she really had gone to piss in the bushes. That scenario grew less likely as the track went further on, some hundred meters into the woods. After a few minutes, in the dim light of the lantern, Ciri could barely make out a figure ahead.

It wasn't Syanna.

The man had his back turned, and all she could see from this distance was a silhouette and grey hair. The outline of the figure was thin, almost skeletal, shoulders slightly hunched over. They moved forward, and the light showed them what had happened to their companion, whose body lay at the man's feet.

"What do you know," he said, in a voice that made her blood freeze. It was toneless and devoid of emotion, but _very_ familiar. "The curse really did screw up their organs."

In the light, they saw that Syanna's belly had been carved open, and as the man said, her guts were all in the wrong places. A few were discolored, and they hung out of her as she lay there, completely devoid of life. Ciri tried to scream, but her throat refused to produce sound.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear on your doorstep," the man continued. "It's been a long time, girl."

She finally mustered the willpower to speak. "No."

"Yes. Did you think your friend was the only one who got to come back to life?"

"That won't last much longer, you fucking pig!" Mistle shouted, and Ciri whipped her head around to face her. It didn't sound like something Mistle would say, but she heard it all the same, just before the other woman surged forward, her sword high above her head.

Faster than her mind could register, Leo Bonhart spun around and sliced Mistle's abdomen open, practically cutting her in half. She spat up blood, then collapsed to the ground.

"MISTLE!"

Ciri was at her side in an instant, watching history repeat itself. "No no no nonononono you're going to be fine Mistle this isn't real it's all a dream I just have to—"

The light inside Mistle's eyes faded, and Ciri's words died with her. She sat there, dumbstruck.

Then she saw red.

"YOU!"

Her sword was already out, already swinging at him. He parried dismissively, stepping to the side and quickly countering with a slash. She had already pirouetted out of the way, springing back towards him with unthinking vengeance. Her moves were savage but ultimately predictable, and Bonhart made short work of her offensive. Stopping her swing halfway by catching her wrist, he smashed against her with a quick headbutt. The impact brought her senses back somewhat, and she separated from him with some swift footwork.

"You're not real," she insisted. "None of this is real. It all makes sense now. My powers aren't working because this is a nightmare. All I have to do is—"

"Wake up?" Bonhart finished. "Well then go ahead."

Ciri stood there, glaring at him with all of her hatred. But he stubbornly remained in front of her.

"That's what I thought. Your body doesn't want to wake up yet. Not until you've seen what I have to show you."

"I don't have to listen to you. Like I said, you're not real."

Bonhart shrugged. "What does it matter if I'm real or not?" He glanced down at the bodies. "I can still cause you pain. And the delicious part is, I'm still inside your head after all these years."

"Rraaaagh!"

The attack was less telegraphed than her previous attempts at striking him, but he dodged it all the same. "Still solving all your problems with violence, I see. That's what I always admired about you."

"Admired? You abused me! Tortured me! All for your sick entertainment!"

"And somehow I passed all of it along to you. You've turned out even better than I could have hoped."

"Shut up!"

She rolled under his next swipe, slashing out in a wide arc as she stood. He hopped forward, then turned around and continued moving away from her. She pursued him, sacrificing her footing to press her advantage. She had him off balance.

Or so she thought. She thrust _Zirael_ towards his heart, and Bonhart swatted it aside before lunging at her with a horizontal slice aimed at her throat. She barely stepped back in time, and it missed her by a hair. He shifted back into a stance, and she attacked him again. _Zirael_ bit into his sword when he used the edge to block, then he maneuvered both swords upwards and kicked her in the chest.

Ciri flew back, slamming against a tree. Bonhart did not close the gap.

"Not fun to be on the other side of this, is it?" he taunted. "Imagine how that girl felt when you played around and laughed while she fought like her honor depended on it! You enjoyed yourself! Don't be afraid to admit it!"

"Never to you!"

Kicking off the tree, Ciri dashed towards him at full clip. Bonhart braced himself, and she leaped into the air with her sword overhead. He parried, and she used the sword as leverage to vault over him in a quick flip, then continued to sprint. She vanished into the trees, and he turned around slowly and deliberately.

"That's right, run away!" he yelled after her. "It doesn't matter. I'll always catch you! Always!"

* * *

The various branches and undergrowth tore at her clothes like sharp talons as she sprinted through the forest, relying on the occasional shaft of moonlight to orient herself. The trees weren't as thick here, and more of the night sky was able to shine through. She couldn't hear Bonhart behind her. But she knew he was faster, and that he kept his word. So she ran, willing herself to wake up the whole time.

This was a dream. It had to be a dream. But if it was, it felt more real than any nightmare she'd ever experienced. Something must be keeping her asleep, feeding her these visions.

' _Think, Ciri, think. Think of Uncle Vesemir's books. What kind of creature can do something like this?_ '

Geralt had told her of a Godling named Sarah who meddled with the dreams of Corrine Tilly, an oneiromancer, as a twisted kind of prank. But Godlings were creatures motivated by mischief, and the dreams they induced were rife with their little jokes. A creature like that wouldn't find any of this amusing.

A Leshen, then? She was in a forest, after all. But she had spied none of the totems or raven swarms that typically accompanied such a monster, especially in dreams that they induced. On top of which, nightmares caused by Leshens tended to be primal and amorphous, filling their victims with a directionless sense of dread. She wouldn't be able to think this clearly if such a creature was causing this.

She could taste copper in her gums, and her heart thundered in her ears. Sweat clung to her skin, and she kept collecting minor nicks and cuts as she barreled through the underbrush.

She didn't notice until the frost started to gather around her that it was getting colder. The trees froze, and a heavy mist swept into the forest. She stopped running.

"Oh no."

Ciri heard the clanking of heavy armor behind her, and she turned around with her sword drawn. A figure stood there, wearing skeletal armor encased in ice. The helmet had a skull shaped mask, with prongs protruding from it like a crown. His sword was drawn as well.

"Ah, _Zirael_. Now there is nothing between us. No armies. No sorceresses. No witcher. You are finally mine."

Now that she understood her situation, fear gave way to hatred. "I've got bad news for you, Eredin. My powers aren't working right now. Also, you're just in my head."

"But you are in here with me," the King of the Wild Hunt replied, stepping closer. "And that is not the point. Do you place no stock in the meaning of dreams? After all, you used oneiromancy to turn my Viceroy against me."

Ciri smirked. "Now I know you're not him. Eredin never found out about that. He died before he could."

"I knew. But I believed his help to be unnecessary."

"Bet you're regretting that now." She started circling him with her sword held to the side, its tip hovering inches above the ground. He mirrored her, and they sized each other up. "What say we settle this, once and for all?"

"It will accomplish nothing."

"Don't see why that means we shouldn't."

The tip of his sword dropped to the ground. "Very well."

She was already upon him, fast as she'd ever been even without her powers. She swung down hard diagonally, and he parried it easily. Their blades bit into one another, and she broke off, pirouetting to the side. He swung after her, smashing his sword into the ground and kicking up dirt. Eredin wasn't quite as fast as Bonhart, but he was _much_ stronger, and the weight of his armor allowed him to put that much more force behind his blows.

Ciri moved behind him, where she was reminded of the armor's other benefit. Her sword bounced off harmlessly, and she switched to a piercing thrust aimed at his eyes. Eredin tilted his head casually to one side, and she struck air. It was becoming difficult to fight in the cold, though it did keep her fury at bay somewhat. She hopped back, and Eredin pounced, arcing his sword high over his head. She barely avoided it in time.

Without breaking his momentum, the King of the Wild Hunt drew his other sword and spun in a circle, swiping it at her neck. Ciri ducked, stabbing at his now exposed belly. Eredin was faster, and caught the blade with the notches carved into the back of his own swords. He twisted them in opposite directions, and _Zirael_ froze, then shattered into a million pieces.

"You were never a match for me, Child of the Elder Blood," he said, sheathing his blades. She tripped and scrabbled backwards, away from him. "You wanted to settle this? Consider it settled. Now come with me."

"No."

Ciri did the only thing left to her. She stood. She turned her back on the past. And she ran.

" _Duettaeánn aef cirrán Cáerme Gláeddyv,_ " said Eredin. " _Yn á esseáth_."

She disappeared into the forest, and the King of the Wild Hunt stared after her.

"You cannot escape your destiny, child. No one can."

* * *

Ciri couldn't remember how long she'd been running. It was easy to lose track of time in a dream, doubly so when fear and rage swam within her head. However long it had been, she was practically spent. She burst through the trees into another clearing, at the center of which rested a small lake.

"That's it!" she exclaimed. "The way out!"

Water had been her way out when she traveled the Spiral. It would be her salvation now.

Her energy restored, she ran headlong at the lake, leaping from the shore and plunging into the water. It was deathly cold, but it hardly mattered. Soon this would be over. Soon she would be free.

She focused, calling out to Mistle, to Geralt, to Yennefer, to anybody. She floated there, treading water, praying that someone would answer her. That something would happen.

"Oh, you silly girl. How many times have I told all of you to look at the heavens and not their reflection?"

Ciri opened her eyes.

Standing on the shore was a man in dark robes, with frayed black hair and a hideous scar across the right side of his face, where one eye was too small for its socket. He stared at her dispassionately, like a teacher who liked to impart his lessons in the cruelest manner possible.

"Vilgefortz."

"That's right. Are you beginning to understand yet?"

"I know I'm being confronted with my worst fears. All the men who ever threatened me, who wanted to use me in their schemes like I didn't deserve a life of my own. But you. You were the cause of it all. You manipulated my father every step of the way. You set everything in motion."

Vilgefortz shook his head. "As I feared. The point has been lost on you."

"Enlighten me, then."

"Why do you think it's your enemies appearing before you?" he asked. "Simple. The nature of existence is reflection. We become what we fight. It is the only way we grow."

"What does that even mean? I'm nothing like you. Or Eredin. Or Bonhart."

"Perhaps not to any of our extremes. But you've picked up a few things here or there. From Bonhart, you learned cruelty. You learned how good it feels to have power over someone and be superior to them. From Eredin, you learned never to trust the word of those who would keep you forever while promising your freedom is imminent. Not even those you call your family."

"And from you?"

He smirked. "Why don't you tell me?"

By now she had to kick a little harder to stay afloat. The water was absolutely frigid, and her muscles were starting to lock up. She let none of this make its way to her face.

"I've learned you're all the same. All any of you ever saw in me was something to exploit, something you could use for your own gain. You never saw me as a person. That's why all of you are dead now."

"You're getting tired, Ciri," he said, unmoved. "Why don't you swim to shore? I'll warm you right up."

"I don't think so."

"Please, I insist." Vilgefortz stretched out his hand, uttering a minor incantation, and Ciri was lifted out of the water. He brought his arm closer to him, and she followed, floating gently to the shore, where he set her down softly on the ground. She started to shiver, but not from the cold.

"How?" she pleaded. "How do I wake up?"

"You don't," said Bonhart, stepping out of the shadows.

"You will stay here forever," said Eredin. "As our guest."

Abandoning words, Ciri sobbed uncontrollably into the ground. This wasn't a nightmare. This was hell.

"Ciri?"

She looked up, past her three tormentors. Twenty feet behind them, there stood a man dressed in elegant purple silks, with a frankly excessive amount of jewelry and impeccable facial hair. He would have looked ridiculous, if he wasn't the first friendly face she'd seen in what seemed like an eternity.

"Dandelion?"

"Oh hell, I must be dreaming again."

Bonhart snarled. "Get out of here, pest!"

"Do not interfere!" bellowed Eredin. "The girl is ours!"

"My perfectly shaped buttocks she is," said the bard. "None of you are real. She can wish you away with a thought."

"So then why hasn't she?" asked Vilgefortz.

"Good question," said Bonhart.

"It's because deep down, she knows what each of us represents. She wants us here."

"No," said Ciri. "I really don't."

"Silence!" Eredin shouted. "We are part of you, whether you admit it or not. You will submit."

"No she won't," said Dandelion. "And I'll prove it to you." Reaching up to his back, he pulled out his lute, and began to play.

Bonhart laughed. "What is this?"

"I knew a girl with ashen hair / the monsters chased her everywhere / she wasn't safe in Thanedd or Kovir…"

"Stop that!" yelled Vilgefortz.

"These monsters walked in human guise / well some were elves but nevermind / she took her sword and slashed them ear to ear…"

Ciri wasn't cold anymore. The music filled her with a strength she hadn't known was there. Dandelion's voice was strong and warm, drowning out the cold and the fear. The blind rage that had been driving her was washed away by the melody, and replaced with something beautiful.

" _Voe'rle, bloede dh'oine!"_

"Now here's the story of the girl / who faced such cruelty from the world / but never stopped believing in herself…"

"SILENCE!" they all screamed in unison.

"So heed my tale, and listen well / or else you'll hear this song in hell / you'll never take her, be you man or elf!"

Moments passed. The three of them burst out laughing.

"What was that supposed to accomplish?" mocked Bonhart. "You planning to sing us to death?"

"No. But I think you might want to look behind you."

The three of them turned, slowly, and their eyes widened in terror.

Ciri stood, her entire being wreathed in green flame. Levitating slowly, she brought her arms up and glared down at them, and saw them for what they really were. When she spoke, her voice was like a hurricane.

"You have no power over me!" she thundered. "Begone!"

Immediately, the three of them disappeared, as if they had never been there. The flames subsided, and as she floated slowly back down to the ground, Ciri stared at Dandelion in absolute wonder.

"That was one hell of a song."

"Thanks," he said, stepping closer. "To be honest, I was kinda winging it."

Ciri laughed, then rushed forward and embraced him, tears of joy and relief streaming down her face. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I thought I'd never escape from that."

"Well, this isn't the first weird dream I've had lately. You were in the last one, too."

"Really?"

He nodded. "I'm not entirely sure you're real, but I don't think this is my dream either. That all seemed pretty specific to you."

"Are we sharing a dream, then?"

"Well, the you in my other dream said that sometimes dreams can… cross over. When they're drawn together by destiny. Or something like that."

"Whatever happened, I'm glad you showed up. Thank you, Dandelion. I mean it. I was about ready to give up."

"Don't mention it."

"Do you think they were right? About me wanting them here?"

"How could that be true?"

She sat down on the grass, and Dandelion followed suit. "I've… been through a lot the last few days. I've had some revelations about myself. I think they represented that, somehow. I was afraid I'd turn into them."

He patted her shoulder. "Never happen. The Ciri I know? No one's ever been able to control you. No matter what happens, you'll make the right decision. I'm sure of it."

"And what if I'm not the Ciri you know?"

"Then you should figure out exactly who you are now. Nobody stays the same their entire life. We're always changing and evolving in response to what life throws at us."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. "Do you know a way out of here?"

"Not really. But I know all dreams have to end. I think the only thing keeping you in here was yourself."

"Will I see you soon?"

"You're always welcome to visit. I'm out of town at the moment. But you should stop by the Chameleon at some point."

"I'd love to."

They sat there for a while, and suddenly Ciri didn't want the dream to end.

* * *

Her eyes cracked open with effort, and Ciri was greeted with the morning sun. She groaned and sat up, trying to retain as much of her dream as possible before it drained out of her mind like water through a sieve. She needn't have worried. What she experienced would likely stay with her until the end of her days.

"She's awake!"

Suddenly there were arms around her, and Mistle's lips were pressed against hers. She submitted to the kiss, then started to return it out of joy and relief. After a few moments, they separated, and Ciri rubbed her eyes to focus them.

"How long was I out?"

"A day and a half," said Mistle. "We came upon a local doctor, and he figured out why you wouldn't wake up."

"It was the mandrake," said a voice from behind her. She had heard it before, but struggled to place it. "The drink you consumed contained too high a dose. It also reacted with your blood in… a unique way."

"Well, my blood is unique. Thank you, doctor…?"

The source of the voice moved in front of her. He had grey hair and bloodshot eyes, wearing a simple frock and travelling bag. She had seen him somewhere before, but again Ciri couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Regis," he said. "You can call me Regis."

Ciri had witnessed some fairly improbable coincidences in her time, which she'd written off as destiny. Still, this was a bit much. She turned to Mistle.

"You just _found_ him?"

"To be honest, he happened upon us. I'm not entirely sure he wasn't following us."

"Not a ridiculous assertion at all, considering the company you keep," he said, glancing over at Syanna, who sat on the other end of the campsite sharpening her sword. "But I assure you, I was just passing by."

"We've met before," Ciri said weakly. "At Stygga Castle."

Regis smiled. "I remember. Truth be told, I only agreed to help once I learned it was you. I'd not have gone near that one otherwise."

"Because of Dettlaff?"

He nodded.

"Thank you. I'm glad you're alive."

"And I'm pleased that you're doing better," he said. "I gave you a concoction that countered the overdose. Mandrake in its purest form is almost instantly lethal, but the distilling process, while it does remove most of the toxicity, has to be exact or it will slowly kill anyone who isn't inured to it, giving them wild hallucinations all the while. I'm afraid Geralt has yet to get the recipe correct."

Ciri laughed.

"Did you have interesting dreams?"

"You could say that."

"Well you'll sleep better tonight. I guarantee it."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Fifteen days after Saovine, by my reckoning."

"It was thirteen days after Saovine when we left," said Mistle. "You were right. Just a few hours."

"Well thank the gods for that." She turned to Regis. "Will you travel with us?"

He looked at Syanna. "As long as that one is with you, I'm afraid not. Believe me when I say that's best for everybody. But should you need me, I have my ways of finding out."

"Thank you again, Regis. For everything."

"Happy to be of service. Until we meet again." With that, he walked off into the forest.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Mistle asked. "You seem different somehow."

"I am different," said Ciri. "But it's nothing to worry about. It was just a dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank OriAr for continuing to insist that I find a way to fit Dandelion into the vast monstrosity this story has become. That saved this chapter from having a much darker ending. This marks the end of this particular story arc, with everything set up for the next one. Next chapter is in two weeks, in which we'll experience a slight change in perspective.


	17. Another Round for Everyone

Leisl hated her name. She sometimes dreamed of traveling to a city far away, where she could reinvent herself and go by something sensible. Eliza perhaps. It formed roughly the same sound as the name she’d been born with, but seemed far more elegant bookended by vowels. The problem with living in a small village like Unicorn was that she could never escape the fact that everybody here knew her name, especially since she worked in the tavern.

She was alarmingly thin, with wiry brown hair done up in half a bun and twin bangs framing either side of a mousy face that only attracted the kind of man who thought that having a sword and a pouch of gold entitled him to do whatever he wanted. She had learned quickly that helping him keep that delusion alive meant that the pouch of gold in question would be far lighter by the time he left. If she invited him into the storeroom, he would leave without it. Her mother always told her to use every advantage she had, and Leisl had taken that to heart. And to bed.

Three days had passed since the incident that had the village abuzz, which was good for business, but not for her chances of ever pushing it out of her mind. Leisl didn’t like to dwell on horrible things. Not that it stopped her from doing so. At night, when she tried to sleep, she could still feel the heat of the flames.

Thankfully, the fire had hardly touched the establishment, and they were back in business the very next day. It was an older style tavern, with assorted tables that fit six chairs apiece scattered all throughout the space. The wood was old but sturdy, and none of it was rotten. The hearth along the east wall was already lit and had been all day, given that the snows had started  a week or so earlier. There was a bar in the back, directly across from the door. Half the village could and did gather and carouse here, and there was still plenty of room for travelers nearly every night. Right now, however, the tavern was mostly empty, as expected for early afternoon.

A light smack across her rear brought her back to the present, and she glared cheekily at Tomen, one of the regulars whom she had taken into the back quite a few times. Tomen had done his time in the Alba Division during the last war, and Leisl doubted he saw her any more favorably than the lasses he and his boys had ravaged along the way. But he always had coin and wasn’t half bad, so she let him indulge in the fantasy that he was the first to take her innocence away. In truth, he wasn’t even the fifth.

“Another round for me and the lads,” he said as the other men around the table stared at her like wolves.

“Be patient,” she said, smiling coyly. “You should learn to savor that ale or you’ll be out of coin by nightfall.”

“Ah, that’ll never happen. We reaped a fat bounty rounding up the Pollazo gang. We’ve got enough to buy drinks for days.”

She chuckled and made her way to the bar, where Henrich, the barkeep, had already filled a new set of mugs. “You’ll hear no complaints from me.”

Now that they were off the army’s payroll, Tomen and his men had turned to bounty hunting to make ends meet. They were fairly good at what they did, and there was no shortage of bandits in the area.

“Too bad you weren’t here a few nights ago,” she said as she passed out the fresh drinks and collected the empty ones. “You would’ve been able to cash in on the Rats.”

Tomen’s eyes widened with equal parts surprise and intrigue. “They were here?”

“Yep. Rounded everybody up outside while their pet witch tried to set fire to the place.”

“What happened then?” asked Marco, a lithe, acrobatic man who was good with knives, seated to Tomen’s left. “I mean, the place is still standing.”

“Well…”

The door opened and all of them turned to see several new faces enter. There were five in total, three of them women. One of the men was enormous, almost reaching the ceiling and barely fitting through the doorway. The first woman had raven black hair and a longbow on her back, with a coat that was somehow even darker. The second was young, blonde, and seemingly attached to the behemoth, stroking him lovingly. One man walked behind the group, a little older, examining the room as though he saw what none of the others could.

And finally there was the woman standing in front, with the deepest, blackest skin Leisl had ever seen. She was bald, apparently by choice, and wore no sleeves even though there was snow outside. Her arms were made of taut muscle like coiled springs, and she wore a longsword on her belt. There was no anger in her eyes, but they held a sort of natural fury, like an ocean that could suddenly whip up into a hurricane.

“Welcome!” she greeted. “Sit anywhere you like, and tell me what you’re having.”

“Bourbon,” said the woman with the bow, then pointed to the mountain of a man. “And a keg of ale for this one.”

“I’ll have some gin,” said the older gentleman.

“And I’d like a glass of Erveluce,” added the blonde.

She turned to the apparent leader of the group. “And for you?”

“Water, please.”

Leisl blinked, surprised at how gentle the woman’s voice was. “Coming right up. Henrich! We got any kegs?”

The barkeep nodded and disappeared into the back. The group took a seat on the opposite side of the room from where Tomen and his men were staring at them in equal parts fear and simple curiosity. Leisl moved back to the table.

“You know who they are?” Marco was asking, to which Tomen nodded.

“Onyx Squadron,” he answered. “General Voorhis’ pet freaks. Best leave ‘em be.”

“Why’s that? I don’t like the way that she-elf with the bow was eyeing me.”

“That ain’t a fucking she-elf. Her ears are round.”

“No, they’re half pointed. She’s got elf in her somewhere.”

Tomen’s face disappeared into his palm. “Why does that ploughing matter? The elves are our allies, and those folks are part of the same _bloede_ division we were.”

“That so? I never saw ‘em.”

“I did. Once. At least, I saw what they left behind. They did recon on a Redanian outpost. When we came in to capture it the next day, we did so unopposed. Everyone inside had been slain to a man.”

“You’re saying they did it?” asked Rubenn, a stocky man with short black hair sitting across the table. “How? Redanian outposts always had thirty men at least, and there’s only five of them.”

“In a word? Poison. Somehow they got rat poison into the food. The ones that didn’t keel over had to patrol while they could barely stand, and they got their throats cut in the dark. A few of ‘em were even crushed to death. The rest got filled with arrows. So like I said, don’t start anything.”

Marco crossed his arms. “Fine. I’m just saying, there’s something off about that one.”

“What do you suppose they’re doing out here?” asked Genette, a thin man with long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. His axe was resting against the side of the table, and he shifted it out of the way to grab his drink.

“If I had to guess,” said Tomen, “I’d say it has to do with the story lovely Leisl here was just telling us.”

“I suppose,” she replied. “It was rather strange. Two of the patrons managed to drive them off.”

“Really? How the hell did they manage that?”

“One of them was a witcher.”

A collective silence fell around the table.  The fighting prowess of witchers was legendary. Even still, Leisl wouldn’t have believed that one of them could take on a gang as notorious as the Rats unless she had seen it for herself.

“And the other?”

“A mage. Smacked their witch around like she were nothing but a fly.”

“What were they doing here?”

Leisl shrugged. “Getting a nice meal and a drink. Mergetta was serving them that night, I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“Well, thanks for the tip. When we bring the Rats in, we’re coming here for the drinks.”

She bowed. “Your patronage is appreciated.”

“Speaking of appreciation,” said Tomen, gripping her hand. “How about I show you some in the back?”

A series of whoops went up from around the table, and Leisl smiled coquettishly as she withdrew her hand.

“Tell you what, keep ordering and we’ll see how the night plays out. In the meantime, gentlemen, I think I hear Henrich coming back with that keg. Let me know if you need anything.”

Tomen grinned, and took a swig of his ale. “We’ll do just that, sweetheart.”

* * *

“Here we are: bourbon, gin, Erveluce, a keg of ale, and… water. You folks looking to eat as well?”

Each of the members of Onyx Squadron thanked Leisl briefly and began to drink. Henrich strained with effort as he set the keg down on the table, where it teetered on the edge and threatened to fall. The large man caught it with one gigantic hand, and pulled it slowly back onto the table. Henrich gave him a grunt of appreciation and trundled back to the bar.

The raven-haired woman answered her question. “Not presently, no. We’re actually here for information.”

Though they had met eyes earlier, from this close Leisl could see just how vibrant and blue they were: frosty, but full of emotion. Like the sudden jolt of energy that came when stepping out into the cold. The woman’s tongue ran over her upper teeth one by one, from left to right, before she took another sip of her drink. The whole time, she never broke eye contact.

Leisl blinked. “About what, may I ask?”

The woman smirked. “I think you know.” She glanced over at the other table and tapped the side of her head. “I have good ears, which by the way are _not_ pointed.”

“Of course not, ma’am. To be honest I knew the incident the other night would gather attention, but the most I expected was some guards.”

“To deal with a gang that has a budding sorceress among its members? That’s the kind of thing you call us for.”

“Quit bragging,” said the blonde. “The witcher and sorceress you mentioned. Do you know their names?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

“Please, my name is Emelie. This other lovely lady is Rosalind.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, both. I’m Leisl.” She looked around the table. “And the others?”

“Daxyl Renard, at your service,” said the older gentleman.

“Bruno.”

“And this is Amandine,” said Emelie, indicating the final member. “She only talks when she has to.”

She nodded towards Amandine. “Did you just arrive in Unicorn?”

“We did,” said Rosalind, leaning back so the two front legs of her chair were separated from the floor.

“Will you be needing a place to stay? We have rooms.”

“Very kind of you to offer, but we can find our own arrangements. These drinks are pretty good, though. We’ll stick around for a little while.”

Leisl smiled. “I’ll start a tab.”

“Tell us more about this place,” Rosalind said right as she was about to walk away. “Why’s it called Unicorn, anyway?”

“Did you see the statue on your way in?”

She nodded.

“A long time ago it was made of gold. Then someone stole it, so they built a new one out of silver. People kept stealing it and they kept making new ones out of less valuable material, and now it’s made of straw. Just about the only noteworthy thing about this place.”

“Do you get a lot of bandits around here?” asked Emelie.

“Sometimes, though they don’t often have the stones to march right into the village. Mostly they rob the odd caravan or catch a lass who shouldn’t have strayed too far from home. A few weeks ago some of them murdered the cunning woman who lived on a hill southeast of here. Awful shame, that.”

Daxyl raised an eyebrow. “Did they have a reason?”

She shrugged. “Do they need one? She wasn’t a sorceress, just a common village herbalist. Not too old either, mid thirties or so. But folk called her the cut-wife on account of her being the one young women go to when they have a burden they’d rather not carry.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin and stared past her, at the floor. “An intriguing mystery.”

“But not one we came here to solve,” said Emelie. “Besides, the solution is obvious anyway.”

“I suppose.”

Leisl bowed. “Let me know when you’re ready for the next round.”

Raising her glass, Rosalind nodded wordlessly and watched her go.

* * *

As the afternoon turned into evening, More guests filtered into the tavern, and Leisl moved between them with practiced ease. There was an art to it: people expected service within a certain window of time, and she needed to already be there when they wanted another round. She needed to be just flirtatious enough that they would be thinking of taking her in the back, without coming on too strong.

The work wasn’t for everyone, but Leisl was good at it. She always had been.

Caelan and Maura, the newlyweds, arrived around six. They had married a few weeks earlier, but insisted on going out for drinks every night like nothing had changed, to the chagrin of the older members of the community, who insisted they should start a family. Whenever that happened, Maura grew strangely quiet, for a reason Leisl had never been able to uncover, though she had her suspicions.

Next were Prentis and Yohann, two old men who had made their living as builders before selling off their business and retiring in the same small village. Their wives had died years before, but the two were inseparable. They always took the same table in the back corner and spent the night drinking and remembering days gone by.

Then there was Viola, who managed to be even more of a harlot than Leisl herself. She didn’t even get paid for it. Leisl still hazily remembered one drunken night growing up when the two of them had enough of men and decided to keep each other warm. The next morning the other girl had declared it a mistake and asked Leisl to tell no one, but every so often, when their eyes met, she saw Viola crack the slightest of smiles.

The rest were assorted travelers and guards. A few patrons had clearly been nursing a bottle or two before they even arrived, and when the time came to send them home, she walked them out personally, only pickpocketing those she knew would not return the next day. Most of them would just assume the missing coins had either been lost or spent on more booze.

Henrich tossed another log into the hearth, kicking up a flurry of wild embers and causing Leisl to jump slightly to the side to avoid them. As she did so, an empty glass fell from her tray, and plummeted towards the floor. Rosalind plucked it from the air just before it impacted, and returned it to her with a flourish.

“Ought to be more careful, darling.”

A heat flooded into her cheeks, far more than the fire could reasonably cause. “Thank you. Those are good reflexes you’ve got.”

She tapped her bow. “Hand eye coordination. Important in this line of work.”

The rest of her companions were engaged in a separate conversation, leaving the two of them  with just each other’s company. The other patrons’ drinks were still full, and the raven haired woman was admittedly fascinating. She had a few minutes to spare.

“It’s not every day I meet a woman in… well, in your line of work. Let alone three. Mostly it’s the elves who train their women in combat.”

Her icy blue irises sparkled in the firelight, and Rosalind flashed a ravishing smile. “Well, I’m special.” She nodded towards the rest of the table. “None of us really fit in with the rank and file, so we get to do things that take advantage of our many talents.”

“I have a pretty good idea what yours is.”

“Well, that one’s obvious. Emelie here was in the circus. Bruno was too. Amandine’s from Zerrikania, where women are trained from birth to be the most fearsome of warriors.”

She pointed at Daxyl. “What about him?”

“I’m more of a strategist.”

“He knows a little bit of everything,” explained Rosalind. “Especially good with poison.”

“I heard. Was that story true?”

“Your friend exaggerated a bit, but yes, we did our part for the war effort. Now that it’s over, we help with… other things.”

“Like tracking down a small time gang.” At her raised eyebrow, she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, the Rats are dangerous, but Tomen and his boys could take them even on their worst day. Why send people as skilled as you?”

She chuckled. “Orders from on high. The sort you don’t question.”

“I suppose whoever gave it had a reason.”

Rosalind smiled even wider. “You would make a magnificent spy, darling. Though in truth I’ve told you as much as I have because we’re not under orders to be discreet. I can’t tell you exactly why we were sent because I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, thank you for making my night more interesting at the very least.” She inclined her head towards the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the other patrons. I’ll be back when you need another round.”

She raised her mug and her smile faded back to a sly grin. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Halfway through the evening, more travelers entered, all part of the same caravan. They scattered to the bar and various tables as others left, and Leisl made her rounds.

The further away from the center they were, the smaller the tables became. The ones along the wall could comfortably seat one or two, which proved handy for those who desired a quiet corner to spend with someone close. The two old men, Prentis and Yohann, were seated at one such table, and Leisl brought them their next round of ale.

In the opposite corner, from a position where she could observe the entire space, a woman who appeared in her mid forties sat by herself. The exotic colors and patterns on her clothing contrasted well against her deep mahogany skin, and she sat there quietly, observing. As Leisl approached, she turned her head slowly and gave a slight smile.

“Greetings,” she said. “My name is Leisl. What’ll you be having tonight?”

“Water for now,” the woman replied.

She chuckled. “Not only do I get two Zerrikanians in here in one night, they both ask for water. Is that rare where you come from?”

“I don’t come from Zerrikania.”

Leisl stared, wide-eyed, failing to hide the blush that flooded her cheeks. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No need to feel ashamed, child. You’ve been surrounded by lily white skin for so long it’s only natural to think that anyone who looks different comes from somewhere else.”

“So you’re from here, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m not getting a tip, am I?”

The woman laughed. “As I said, don’t be too concerned. The name of where I come from would be meaningless to you.”

“What do I call you, then?”

“I’m just a storyteller,” the woman said with a knowing smirk. “But you can call me Scheherazade.”

 “Sahara… zod?”

“Close enough.”

“Water, then?”

“Of course.”

She nodded vigorously to shake off the embarrassment, in vain. “Coming right up.”

* * *

“Welcome, good to see you again,” Leisl greeted as she stepped over to the table where Caelan and Maura were sitting. “What’ll you have?”

Caelan was a miller’s son, responsible for grinding up the harvest every year. With winter in full swing he had taken to spending the coin he’d earned on drink, and dragging his wife along for the ride. He was tall, with thick arms and a ferocious temper. He had a thick black beard and dark brown eyes, and liked to fuck Leisl like a dog. She made him pay for the pleasure of course, but it had only started two weeks after the honeymoon was over and he began to grow bored with his bride.

Maura, by contrast, looked like a fawn in human form. She was delicate, almost as thin as Leisl herself, and had large doe eyes that broadcast her every emotion for those who cared to pay attention. Her dirty blonde hair was loose and cut just below her shoulders, with twin half braids extending from her scalp to where the hair met the base of her skull. She was currently frowning and staring at the table.

“Hey, Leisl,” said Caelan, not meeting her eyes. Was that why he fucked her from behind? Did he believe that lack of eye contact made it not real? She smiled, and moved her attention to his new wife.

She’d known Maura since they were children, though they hadn’t truly spoken since Leisl was fifteen. Most of the girls in the village tended to avoid her, out of fear that she would steal their men, unaware that the men in question needed no convincing. She couldn’t steal what was freely given.

“We’ll each have a pint of ale to start,” he said. Maura opened her mouth, but reconsidered when he sent a glare her way.

“Coming right up,” she said slowly, not taking her eyes off of Maura, who stared at her pleadingly.

Examining her closer, Leisl noticed that she hadn’t taken off her coat, even though the fire kept the whole place as toasty as a Nazairi summer. A bruise across her eye was barely healed, and she had a scab where her lip had been split. She clearly wanted to say something that she didn’t feel safe mentioning around her husband.

Leisl walked away to prepare the drinks. What could she do, realistically? The law said that Caelan could treat his wife however he pleased. The handful of times that he’d ploughed her, she noticed his penchant for being rougher than other men, but he’d never crossed the line with her. Odd that he would treat the village whore with more respect than his own wife. But then she was harder to entrap.

“Here you are.” She deposited the drinks back on the table. She stared directly at Maura. “Let me know if you need anything else. _Anything_.”

“We will,” said Caelan, raising his mug. “Cheers.”

* * *

“Lively crowd in here tonight,” said Prentis, setting his mug back down on the table. “Like old times.”

Yohann finished swallowing his own drink and smiled. “And which old times would those be?”

“I still remember your wedding night,” he answered. “Like it was yesterday. Leandra was upset because you’d gotten more compliments on your outfit than she got on her dress. But after a few drinks and a few turns on the dance floor, neither of you remembered what you’d been bickering about.”

Raspy laughter erupted from the other man. His silver hair had withstood the ravages of time, while Prentis had gone nearly bald. Both of them were remarkably fit for their age, owing to a long history of manual labor with which they’d laid the foundations of many buildings in many cities.

“I did look absolutely dashing, didn’t I?”

“Always did know how to dress yourself. Leandra’s gown was nothing to sneeze at either. I dare say the Emperor himself would have envied the two of you.”

Yohann smiled reflectively. “She was a good friend. I miss her still. But I have you.”

“Indeed you do.”

“More ale?” asked Leisl, having caught the tail end of that conversation.

“Of course, darling,” said Prentis, finishing off his drink. “May I ask you something?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m astonished that you’re known to everyone in this village, but you still haven’t managed to find a husband.”

She smirked. “That wasn’t a question.”

“It wasn’t? Ah, where is my head these days?”

“Up your own arse,” said Yohann. “Her lack of a husband is neither of our business. By the Great Sun, it’s the thirteenth century! A woman shouldn’t have to marry if she doesn’t want to!”

“Of course, of course.” He bowed his head. “Please accept my most humble apologies.”

She laughed. “Don’t fret. I don’t have one because I’ve never looked. Besides, the fact that half the village has ‘known’ me might be responsible for my lack of suitors.”

Prentis waved his hand. “Hogwash. My Valentina had lovers from Nazair to Vicovaro, and still wound up with a stiff like me. She had a wild heart, too big to love just one person. We had that in common, she and I.”

“You mean to say…?”

“The marriage was mainly to secure an estate that will be handed down to my children when I die,” he said. “But it was more of an… open arrangement.”

Leisl blinked. “Oh. I see.”

“Look at that, Prentis, we’ve broken her.”

“No, no, it’s just… I never knew that about you. Although I can understand why you’d keep something like that hidden.”

“We did for years. At times I’d get a visit from one well meaning person or another claiming I was being cuckolded, and I had to pretend to be outraged.” He sighed and shook his head. “I was never very good at it. But I’m old now. What’s the point in keeping secrets anymore?”

“Why tell me now, though?”

He shrugged. “Never came up before.”

“The point is,” said Yohann, “there’s nothing wrong with sowing your oats before you settle down, and it’s okay if you never settle down at all. The world has changed from when we were your age. For the better, I say.”

She smiled. “This round’s on the house.” Before they could politely protest, she took their empty mugs and headed back to the bar, where their refill was waiting.

* * *

 As soon as Leisl finished refilling the drinks, she felt a soft hand brush her forearm. Glancing to her right, she saw that Viola had gotten extremely close to her without her noticing. She backed up, more to avoid spilling the drinks than out of fear, though Viola didn’t appear to read it that way.

“Viola! You gave me a start.”

“Sorry,” she replied. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you all night, but you’re so busy.”

“I still am.” Leisl started to walk past her with the drinks, and she followed. “So unless you’re ordering another round, best keep whatever it is to yourself.”

Viola bowed her head, crossing one arm over her chest to clutch the other. “Okay. You’re right. Nevermind.”

She delivered the drinks to Prentiss and Yohann, and started looking around for whoever else needed a refill. Caelan’s glass was getting low, while Maura hadn’t touched hers all night. Tomen and his boys were getting close to being cut off, while the members of Onyx Squadron were doing just fine. The woman known as Scheherazade was a quarter of the way through her water, and was still staring at the room with an amused expression.

Leisl sighed as she saw that Viola was still standing there, dejected. She moved over to her. “Fine. You wanna talk? Follow me.” She turned to Henrich. “Cover me for five minutes?”

The old bartender nodded, and she led the other woman into the back. Viola was dressed even sluttier than usual, her tits held in place by nothing short of sheer willpower. Leisl had never gone in for that method of attracting unassuming men and then robbing them blind. She didn’t begrudge her that, beyond the fact that Viola would occasionally snatch away someone she had already set her sights on, for the sex alone.

They arrived in the back storeroom, which was lined with kegs and grain sacks, with hay spread across a sprawling stone floor. They had room to spare, and found a quiet corner where none could disturb them.

“Well? What is it?”

Viola kissed her on the lips.

It was sudden and aggressive, the sort of kiss that happened before she knew it. At the same time, she was pushing her against the wall, caressing her form and breathing heavily the whole while. What struck Leisl as odd was how straightforward it all was. Above all else, Viola appreciated the value of the tease. She liked to take all night to butter up her mark before she pounced. This was unprecedented, to say the least.

Shoving violently, she sent the other woman staggering back across the floor. “What the hell was that?”

“Something I’ve not had the courage to do for a long time,” Viola admitted, avoiding her eyes. “I’ve always fancied you, you know.”

A whirlwind of emotions tore through Leisl’s mind. She felt sorrow and joy, rage and lust. Part of her wanted to yank Viola’s hair and bite her lip, while the other part wanted to go even further, to hear her screaming her name as she fucked her hard enough to bleed.

She pushed those thoughts aside, marching forward and glaring at her. “How many drinks have you had?”

“Not many. A few shots, that’s all.”

“Well you’re cut off. Get the fuck out.”

Viola stood there as if shot. Tears started streaming down her eyes. “Does what I said mean nothing to you? I have all this inside me, and to you it’s just words?”

Anger overwhelmed whatever compassion she had left. “Where was all this when I was fifteen, naked and crying in your barn because you told me that night of joy we’d shared was a _bloede_ mistake? Where was this declaration of love when you got to stay friends with all the other girls while I got painted as the village whore? Huh? Where was it?!”

“I’m sorry, Leisl. I was confused back then. I… my parents would have disowned me if they knew, but now I don’t care. I only want to be with you and—”

“Enough.” She glared, even as the other woman continued to bawl. “Go sober up. If you still feel this way in the morning, then we’ll talk. But I’ll not have this conversation with you right now. I’ve got work to do.”

She walked past her, out of the room.

* * *

“I’m telling you, the bitch has elven blood in her.” Marco was thoroughly sloshed by now, slurring every few syllables. “The fuck kind of woman carries a bow everywhere? She-elves, that’s fucking who.”

A long, frustrated sigh escaped from Tomen, who slammed his mug onto the table. “What the fuck is your problem with elves?”

“Look,” he said, swaying a bit. “I can appershiate the stater-strater…  idea of givin’ the non-humans their share of land for helping us fight the Nordlings. But they should shtay on that land. Not mix it up with the rest of enlit-enlightened society.”

“Yeah, real enlightened you are, looking like you’re overdue for a puke. Come off it, man. She’s not even an elf.”

“Whatever. I just don’t like the way she was looking at me. Oughtta nab her outside, take her for a toss in the hay and cut her throat. Teach the rest of those freaks not to fuck with us.”

Once again Tomen’s palm swallowed his face. “You know what? Try it. But I’m not coming to the funeral.”

“Relax, Marco,” said Rubenn. “Maybe don’t have any more of that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Genette. “Ale’s got you suicidal. She’d put an arrow in your throat before you even get close.”

“Nah, I’d crouch outside all sneaky like,” he insisted. “Nab her afore the rest of ‘em even reckon she’s gone. Then I’d have my way with her and get her to admit she’s a dirty fucking elf. That’s when I’d gut her.”

“If I’m such a dirty elf, why do you plan on fucking me in the first place?”

It was then Marco noticed that the rest of the table had grown dead silent. He turned around slowly to see the raven-haired woman staring down at him, her crystalline blue eyes containing more amusement than anger. As though she couldn’t even take his threats seriously.

“Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”

“Uhhhhhh…..” His jaw had grown slack, and his thoughts struggled to swim through the sea of alcohol that had deadened his brain.

“He’s drunk,” said Tomen. “Didn’t mean none of it.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you quite certain? In my experience, men are never more honest than when they’re drunk.”

“Even if you’re not an elf, you’re still a fucking freak!” Marco screamed. “A woman’s place is at home, raising children and waiting on her man. Not shooting arrows into people!”

Rolling her eyes, the woman glanced at Tomen. “May I?”

He nodded.

Her fist crashed against Marco’s jaw, Sending him to the floor with three lost teeth. The other three men stayed perfectly still. Marco vomited a little, and passed out. She brushed the front of her gambeson and bowed slightly.

“May the Great Sun light your way,” she said before returning to her table.

* * *

“Satisfied?” Emelie asked as Rosalind returned to the table, shaking her wrist.

“I believe so.” She slid into her chair and downed another sip of her drink. “If I’d listened to that for much longer I’d probably have killed the man. Still might.”

“Stay your bow. We’re not here to antagonize citizens of the Empire. Besides, they could be useful.”

“As what? A toilet?”

The blonde sighed. “Take this seriously, I beg you. You’ve already said way too much to that tavern girl you’ve got a crush on. Go and plough her if that’s what it takes to get it out of your system, but we need to discuss strategy. A group of bounty hunters that already have an interest in finding this gang could prove useful as intermediaries. All we’d have to do is follow them.”

Rosalind shrugged. “They’re mostly halfwits, but the leader’s got a decent head on his shoulders. I asked around earlier and they’ve earned a bit of a reputation in these parts. It’s not a bad idea.”

“I agree,” said Daxyl. “The tavern girl, however. She’s not just interesting to Rosalind. There’s something about her. Her eyes in particular.”

“How’s that?” asked Emelie.

“I have a few theories,” he replied. “None I feel comfortable putting forth at this time. I need more data.”

“She has history with that group,” said Rosalind. “Could tell us more about them. Where they camp, what kind of success rate they’ve had, that sort of thing.” She sat up and swiveled her head about. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

“In the back,” said Bruno, who had remained silent until now. “With another lass.”

“Well, there go my chances.”

“On the contrary,” said Daxyl. “I dare say this improves them.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Notice how she doesn’t spurn attention,” he explained. “This isn’t just a workplace for her. It’s a hunting ground. Whatever you feel towards her is clearly mutual, though I’d leave your purse out here if she drags you in the back.”

“You’re a cynical bastard, you know that?”

He shrugged. “But a perceptive one.”

“I still say she’s useful,” she continued. “And damn hot.”

Amandine, who had also not said a word up to that point, cracked a slight smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

As Viola hustled past her, trying her best to conceal the tears as she dashed out of the tavern, Leisl felt the rage dwindle, replaced by confusion and regret. Why had she said all that? It was all true of course, but just like the directness of the kiss had not been in Viola’s nature, ripping out her heart like that was not in hers. She’d been sober all night, yet somehow the words had escaped from her like vomit.

Clutching her forehead, Leisl re-centered herself and got back into service mode, noting that Scheherazade was out of water. She also noticed that the older woman had turned and watched Viola run out crying, but then so had many patrons. It wasn’t her subtlest moment. She headed over.

“Can I get you another?”

Scheherazade nodded “Of course, dear. But first, tell me what that was all about.”

“We fucked when we were fifteen.” Leisl said, then her brain caught up to her and she realized what she’d just let slip.

She’d meant to say something else, to lie, but something was compelling her towards the truth. “When we woke the next morning, she said it was all a mistake and that we shouldn’t associate anymore. Then she told all our friends that I’d been sleeping around with half the village, which to be fair was true, but she’d done the same and they never ostracized her.”

The woman only smiled. “Interesting. And what happened tonight?”

“She kissed me while we were in the back. Afterwards all I wanted to do was break her heart like she broke mine. So I did.”

Her hands shot to her mouth, covering it while she glanced to each side to see if anyone else had heard. “I didn’t mean to say all that.”

“The truth isn’t always kind,” said Scheherazade, not losing her smile. “But it’s not the first time you’ve heard it unbidden tonight, is it?”

Leisl shook her head.

“A lot of people think life would be simpler without lies,” she continued. “But on reflection, they’re what holds society together. Sometimes lies are told to protect the feelings of another, or to protect their safety from a world that doesn’t understand their love.” She glanced at Prentis and Yohann. “Look at those two. They loved their wives, true, but they loved each other more. That’s why they’re still together.”

She followed the other woman’s gaze, and saw what had always been there, but which she had not picked up on before. The two of them gazed at each other tenderly, stopping just shy of what they really wanted to do.

“Sometimes people want to tell the truth, but fear they wouldn’t be believed.” She looked towards Caelan and Maura. “And even if someone were to believe it, would they help? Could they? Would it be worth the risk of retribution? So they lie to themselves, insisting that there’s really nothing they can do, never daring to jump the fence to freedom. They prefer the certainty of their living nightmare to not knowing what tomorrow might hold if they try to break free.”

Her gaze shifted again, and Leisl’s head followed.

“Or consider those groups of murderers over there. One works for the Empire, the other used to but now seeks their own fortune. Do you suppose that either is superior to the other? Is killing for a cause more honest than doing it for coin? I suppose we’ll know before the end of the night.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The understanding hit her all at once. “This didn’t start happening until you walked in.”

Scheherazade smirked. “You’ve found me out. I confess to having a bit of fun. But so far, nobody’s said anything they don’t mean.”

“Who are you, really? You’ve made me tell the truth; now it’s your turn.”

“I told you: I’m only a storyteller.”

“Not a very original one, though. The name you gave me comes from an Ofieri fable: One Thousand and One Nights.”

She smiled even wider. “You’re a clever one. Very well. I’m known in many cultures by many names. Some call me the Storyteller. Others the Dreamweaver. My true name would mean nothing to you, and all who have learned it are either dead or met worse fates. I’ll spare you from that.”

“Are you a mage?”

“No. Spells don’t interest me. Spells are what the feeble little cheats of the world use to imitate true power. It’s the difference between a dragonfly and a dragon.”

“Then what are you?”

“I told you, I’m Scheherazade, a humble storyteller.”

Leisl shook her head. “That’s not all you are.”

She sat back, her smile resettling. “Oh, so you’d rather know what it is I do? It’s simple, really. I follow threads of fate. Latch on to interesting stories. And your story is _very_ interesting, Leisl.”

“What the _bloede_ _uffern_ does that mean?”

“You didn’t think I stopped in here by happenstance, did you? The truth is, you’ve already become embroiled in a plot, one authored by a relative of mine. As things stand now, your story doesn’t end very happily. But if you agree to trust me, I can change that.”

“Trust you? You’re not even human.”

“Of course not. I’m so much more. Think about it. You have all night, after all.”

Leisl sighed, then nodded slowly. “I will. In the meantime, water’s coming right up.”

* * *

“Can we go home yet?” Maura pleaded, laying her fingers gently upon his arm and staring into his eyes, which once held so much feeling, but had now gone cold. “I feel strange.”

Caelan shook his head. “Not until I’ve had my fill. Drink yours, too. No point in not doing it anymore.”

Maura stared down into the ale and sniffed. It smelled like piss, and looked like it too. She used to love it. But she had outgrown it somehow. “I’d prefer something else.”

“What, some wine? Would that make you feel fancy?”

He was already drunk. It brought out the foul side of him, the animal he had kept caged the entire time they’d known each other. She knew what was coming later, and stiffened. It wasn’t just the drink that brought out the beast. It was her. He never spoke to his buddies like this.

“Please, Caelan. I don’t like it here. I don’t know why you insist on dragging me out here night after night, parading me around like I’m your damn trophy. Do you truly have no one else to spend time with?”

Her eyes went wide and she gasped as she realized what she’d just said. That was all supposed to stay inside. She had no idea how the words made their way out of her mouth.

Caelan’s hand flew up instinctively, then lowered when he remembered where they were. “There will be punishment for that later,” he growled, teeth gnashing. “Shut up and drink your ale, woman.”

“Actually, I think you’ve both had enough.”

Behind him, glaring with unholy fury, stood Leisl. “Go home, Caelan. Sober up. Maura stays here, where she’ll be safe.”

He scrunched his brow, and his eyes became narrow slits. “The fuck are you on about?”

“Go on, Maura. Tell the truth. Tell him what I’m talking about.”

“Don’t you fucking—”

“He’s been beating me!” shouted Maura, and half the tavern turned to look. “He’s been beating me since I went to see the cut-wife!”

Looks of astonishment and understanding resonated throughout the crowd. Maura continued, compelled by some unseen force to reveal everything.

“My friends took me to see the cunning woman in the hills,” she elaborated. “I’d been feeling awful pains in my belly, and it turned out the baby was coming months too early. She told me I’d likely die if she didn’t cut it out of me right then.”

She started to cry. “So she did it, and Caelan found out. Took some of his boys and they all took turns ploughing her before they hung her from a tree. Would’ve done the same to me, but Caelan stopped them. Said I had to know what I’d done. He’s been dragging me out in public to shame me ever since.”

“I’ve been trying to rekindle our relationship, you foolish cunt!” He stood, sending his chair toppling to the floor. “But I guess your love for me died when that witch cut the baby out of you! I just wanted to see if there was anything left of the woman I married!”

Leisl crossed her arms. “While sleeping with me on the side?”

She turned to the shocked faces in the crowd. “What? You all know me! I’m the scaaaary whore out to seduce your men into a life of debauchery! Is this really so surprising?”

“Shut up!” Caelan turned around, aiming to slap her across the face.

Faster than her mind could register, an arrow had nailed Caelan’s hand to the nearby wall. He shrieked in pain, and Rosalind readied another.

“Next one goes in your throat.”

“All right, all right, everybody calm down!” Tomen had stood up and made his way over to them. “Caelan, if you’re really the one who raped and killed the cunning woman then that means I can collect the reward on your sorry hide. I’m claiming you right now.”

“No!” screamed Maura. “He’s hurt me, true, but without him I’ll starve. Who’ll take me in knowing what I’ve done?”

“Shh, child.” By this point Prentis and Yohann had made their way over to her. “There are some who don’t judge, who have plenty of coin stashed away. You don’t have to remain with him.”

At this point she burst completely into tears, becoming incoherent. The two old men shepherded her away from the table, into the back corner.

Tomen yanked out the arrow, tossing it back towards Rosalind, who caught it without an issue. Producing a pair of shackles, he bound Caelan’s hands behind him and took him over to the table where he’d been sitting. Rubenn drew his weapon and watched him intently.

Over the next few minutes, many of the patrons began to leave, travelers first. Soon all that remained were Leisl, Henrich, Tomen and his men, the members of Onyx Squadron, Caelan, Maura, Prentis and Yohann. And the strange, otherworldly presence who called herself Scheherazade.

Approaching Tomen from behind, she placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded towards the storeroom. He stood up and followed her, and they disappeared into the back.

“May I ask what brings this on?”

“Because,” she said. “I need my brains fucked out. Now. And I’d rather do it with someone I don’t love.”

* * *

Roughly fifteen minutes passed, and the snow was still falling outside. The room was filled with a  tense silence, heavy and oppressive like thick, humid air. Maura sat quietly weeping in the corner with Prentis and Yohann, while Rubenn, Marco and Genette had bound her husband to a chair and were waiting for Tomen to return. Onyx Squadron drank in silence, entirely unperturbed.

Marco had finished cleaning off the blood from his mouth, and glared daggers at Rosalind, who did not even acknowledge him. Henrich was polishing glasses at the bar, and the strange woman Scheherazade was watching all of them with extreme interest.

The door was kicked open with sudden violence, and five individuals entered, each with a weapon. Most were simple clubs or axes, though one did have a sword. Their armor was completely makeshift and shoddy, useful for fighting off bandits but not much else. The one exception was the man in the center, who was extravagantly dressed in ornate black armor.

From all appearances, he was the leader of the group, with jet black hair that enveloped his face in a full beard and moustache. He stepped forward and raised his arms in the air. “Oi, Caelan! Heard you were in a spot of trouble.”

“Heard right,” said Rubenn, standing and placing his hands on his hips. “And who might you be?”

“We’re the ones who’ll take him off your hands,” said the man. “Really, you don’t want the trouble. Caelan’s a good man, a key part of this village’s wellbeing. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“He raped and murdered a woman, along with a gang of cohorts,” he replied. “I’m guessing that would be you fellas?”

The man laughed. “That wasn’t a woman. She was a witch. And she got what witches deserve.”

“What is this, the ploughing north? Boys, round up the lot of ‘em. Gonna get a fat bounty from the guard post tomorrow.”

Marco and Genette nodded and stood, drawing their own weapons, which were far superior to the ramshackle cudgels wielded by these peasants. They stood there menacingly, and neither side made a move. The members of Onyx Squadron stared on indifferently, whereas Maura was practically frozen in fear. Henrich set down the glass he was polishing, slowly retrieving an axe from below the counter.

“No sudden moves now,” said Rubenn. “Come with us nice and quiet, you get the noose. Or we can drag you to the guard post with your intestines hanging out of you and your balls cut off. Your choice.”

“Both of those are tempting offers,” said the man. “Sadly, I must decline. Boys! Attack!”

The two sides clashed, and two of the five attackers went down within ten seconds. Genette’s axe cut deep into his opponent’s collarbone, while Marco buried a dagger in the other’s eye. The leader was a more competent fighter, probably a war veteran like them. He and Rubenn clashed swords, each searching for an opening. The other two peasants held their own, but were far more hesitant after watching their cohorts die in such a short span of time.

One of them got lucky and bashed Marco across the head, and he retaliated by jamming a knife into the man’s gut and twisting it as he kicked him back, where he tumbled over an empty table and landed on the other side, clutching his stuck belly. He drew another blade and hurled it towards him, but the man got lucky and ducked just in time, and the knife buried itself in the wall behind him.

The one assaulting Genette had lifted up a chair and was using it to fend off his axe. There was no blocking such a large object, so Genette had to keep his distance and maneuver through the space. He ducked underneath as the man swung it at his head, then hit the back of it with his axe to keep it moving in that direction, so that it was torn from the man’s grasp. He spun, using the momentum to arc the axe down towards the peasant’s skull.

Offhandedly, having broken off from Rubenn, the leader interposed his blade and saved his friend from an untimely demise, then deftly twisted the axe out of Genette’s hand. Seizing the opportunity, Rubenn swung towards him, but his blade was already back in position, ready to parry. The man checked him with his shoulder, knocking his sword away with one swift stroke, then taking off his head with another.

He grinned with smug satisfaction. “Who’s next?”

* * *

“What’s that?”

The muffled sounds of screaming reached their ears, and Tomen abruptly stopped his thrusting.

“Hey, why’d you stop?”

“Don’t you hear that?”

“I do, but after the night I’ve had I’m finding it hard to care.”

He listened for a moment. “There’s fighting out there. Shit!” he hurriedly threw on his clothes, leaving her naked, bent over the sacks of grain.

Leisl sighed. The world could be ending for all her libido cared. Growling, she retrieved her own garments and put them on, then ventured outside the room, after Tomen.

And walked right into a bloodbath.

Rubenn’s headless body lay on the floor, at the feet of a well-dressed, dangerous looking man holding a longsword. He moved towards Marco, who barely turned in time to deflect the blow with two of his knives, pushing off of him and rolling over a table to put some distance between them. Genette, meanwhile, was running from a chair wielding peasant, whom she recognized as Bogdan. She’d fucked his brother once.

Tomen had moved in to assist Marco, and was now fending off the man that nobody knew. His armor looked Nilfgaardian, but not standard issue, and he moved differently from most other soldiers she’d seen. He parried Tomen’s attacks with a casual dismissiveness, toying with him while she stood there, frozen.

Stabbing another man in the chest, Marco bounded over a table and attacked the man from another angle, receiving a boot in the gut for his efforts before the man whirled around,  slicing through his clavicle as he moved around him, spinning him with his other hand so that he was in between him and Tomen, then stabbed him through the back of the head.

The sword burst out through Marco’s eye socket, spraying Tomen with gore. Genette attempted to retrieve his axe, but Bogdan got there first, shoving him to the ground and splitting his forehead in half. His brains mixed with his blood and began to slowly pool across the floor.

Onyx Squadron had yet to react, watching the fight play out from their table. Maura had not stopped screaming since the fight began, and Caelan was struggling against his bonds. An idea seized her, and she moved to the bar, smashed a bottle against it, then walked over to Caelan and held the jagged glass to his throat.

“Stop fighting or he dies!”

The whole room froze. Rosalind now had her bow trained on the mysterious man, and he looked at Leisl with an amused expression.

“That’s very cute, darling. But can you do it? Can you murder a man in cold blood?”

“Keep testing my patience and we’ll see,” she growled, discovering to her relief that she was able to lie again. “Don’t come any closer.”

Defying her, the man took one step towards them. Rosalind loosed an arrow, which landed directly in front of his toes.

“She said stay put.”

“Forget about me!” screamed Caelan. “Kill Maura! She’s the bitch that got me into this mess!”

Bogdan was closer, and set to obeying that order. The path he took went right past Emelie, who split his side open with a dagger before plunging another into his trachea. With seemingly unnatural strength, she lifted the man off his feet and choke-slammed him against the floor, where he spat up blood, then grew still. The other man began moving in that direction, and Amandine stood.

As the situation spiraled further out of control, Leisl felt her hands beginning to shake, and she lost her grip on the bottle’s remains. Caelan tried to bite her, but an arrow found his chest before he had the chance. She felt an unbearable well of heat building up inside her, aching to be released like a volcano.

“Caelan!” The man’s stoic façade broke and he charged, dashing towards Maura with a single minded intensity, ready to destroy everybody in his path.

He never got the chance.

His body kept moving past Amandine, then stopped when his head lolled off and his neck began to spurt blood as his heart kept beating. Leisl hadn’t even seen the other woman draw her sword.

The burning cauldron continued to boil inside her, and the flames in the hearth began to flare higher. Leisl couldn’t stop thinking about how this was supposed to be just another night at work. An ordinary night in an ordinary life. She never asked for all this trouble. But it found her all the same.

Falling to her knees, she began to scream, longer and louder than any thought possible. As she did, the image of her flickered, layering over itself, surrounded by pale green light. Wind began to howl inside the tavern, and the wind was coming from her. The tables began to shake and fly around the room, and everyone around her stood, clutching their ears.

The scream became a wail, carrying on long past the point when the air in her lungs should have expired and reverberating throughout the entire space. The roof was ripped off the structure, hurtling out into the night. Then the door flew off, and the walls shook.

Scheherazade sat there, unaffected by the display. She stood, walking forward while everyone around her was paralyzed by the sound. When she spoke, her voice was audible even through the impossibly loud scream, as though she was speaking directly inside her mind.

“The destiny of the world is written in blood,” she said. “Elder Blood. Its veins are like the roots of a tree; buried underground and impossible for most to follow. But every so often, a forgotten branch is discovered.”

Leisl continued to scream, but she could understand her plain as day.

“You are not meant to die here, Leisl. You are not meant to destroy yourself and everything around you like so many of your forebears. I can stop this. You can help me stop this. And you will be my weapon, my instrument with which I shall set right the destiny of the world. Will you accept this mantle?”

‘ _Yes,_ ’ she thought. ‘ _Yes I shall. Save me._ ’

Scheherazade produced a tome, and flipped it open to a specific page. She ran her finger over it, then closed the book with a definitive snap.

The screaming stopped, and Leisl fell to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

She awoke to the sound of birds chirping, and the smell of meat over a fire. Blinking slowly, Leisl moaned and sat up, and found herself in a small clearing in the woods. She glanced quickly to the left and right, and saw no one.

She was no longer clad in her dress, but a shirt and trousers made for traveling that hung like loose skin off of her rail-thin frame. There was a rabbit on a spit above the campfire, and she saw horses a few meters off.

“What in the…”

“Good, you’re awake.” The voice came from behind her, and she recognized it immediately, spinning around to see Rosalind strolling up with more wood for the fire. “The others are out hunting, but they’ll be back soon. In the meantime, I’m sure you have questions.”

Leisl chuckled darkly. “You could say that. Where am I? What happened?”

“Well, after you almost tore the entire tavern apart with some sort of magical freak-out, the village folk decided you ought to be sent away. We offered to take you with us. They’d have burned you otherwise.”

“Magic? But I’m not a witch!”

“Of course not. Daxyl says you’ve got something called Elder Blood. He could tell just by looking at your eyes. Well, that and the way you almost blew up the whole village.”

Clutching her head between her hands, Leisl began to rock slowly back and forth. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

A hand found her shoulder. “Neither do I. But we’re all freaks here. You have a place with us, if you want it.”

She considered her other options. Go back to a village that hated her, called her a whore for years and now wanted her either dead or banished? Try her luck on her own, and get her throat slit by the first pack of bandits she came across? Hang herself from a tree and save everyone the trouble? No. None of those sounded appealing.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad. I’m no good in a fight, though.”

“You don’t have to be. You know the area and its people. Besides, you thought quickly back in that tavern. Not everyone would have the guts to do what you did.”

Leisl shook her head. “I still couldn’t kill him. It was all a bluff.”

“Then it was a damn good one. Just give it time. You’ll fit right in, you’ll see.”

She didn’t reply, and hugged her knees closer to her chest. Rosalind retrieved a blanket and put it over her shoulders, and everything became a little easier to bear.

The others returned eventually, bringing with them a freshly killed stag that they skinned, cut up and roasted, trading stories and quips all the while. Eventually she joined in, and the morning passed into day. By the end of it, Leisl didn’t feel alone anymore. In a strange way, she finally felt like she was somewhere she belonged.

But more than ever, she still hated her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this started as a means for me to introduce the characters that were mentioned a few chapters earlier, and somehow morphed into this. It's the longest chapter so far, and every single character is original. It was also an attempt to get back to some of the brutality of the world of The Witcher, as well as an experiment in writing different sorts of characters than the ones I usually handle. I come from an older writing tradition where just having OCs in your fanfic was frowned upon, and I'm glad the landscape has changed enough for something like this. We'll be seeing more of them later.


	18. The Girls Are Back In Town

“Ah, the smell of fresh cow shit,” said Mistle, inhaling deeply. “How I’ve missed it.”

Ciri had contorted her face into a grimace while her nose tried to adjust to the stench. “Well if I didn’t know we were near a village before…”

“It’s just a farm, actually. Village is a couple miles off.”

“I wonder what scents are in store for us there.”

She laughed. “Has a week in Toussaint spoiled you already? Welcome back to the real world, where the roads are muddy, the people are filthy, and everything smells like blood and shit.”

“I knew there was a reason the only thing I liked about this place was you.”

“I love you too, darling. What about you, Syanna? Dreary enough for you?”

“I’ll survive.”

The three of them continued along the road on horseback, passing the occasional traveling wagon or group of drifters. The village to which they travelled was not heavily patrolled by Nilfgaardians, who only showed up once a month or so to collect tribute. Mistle had explained that before they had left, she told her gang to wait for them here until they returned.

“No one’s travelling alone,” remarked Ciri as they passed another group, consisting of a man, his wife, and two children, accompanied by what appeared to be a hired escort.

“We’re not the only gang in the area,” Mistle explained. “The others aren’t quite as sporting about it, either. We’ll pillage the odd caravan and kill any guards who get in our way, but these animals rob the poor. Men get hacked to pieces and women… well, let’s just say what I went through isn’t exactly unique.”

Syanna frowned. “What about children?”

“They get sold, mostly, to slavers and the like. Though they get butchered just as often.”

“I remember when I still believed people only got killed by monsters,” said Ciri, staring sadly at the road.

“Occasionally we’ll hear about someone getting ripped apart by nekkers or smashed by a troll, but it’s like Syanna said. Normal people are the real monsters. Still, I expect you’ll be able to find witcher’s work if you’re looking for some extra coin.”

“I might. I’d rather not go back to robbing people for a living, no offense.”

“Afraid you’ll like it too much?”

Ciri smiled and shook her head. “No. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like the world has done me any favors, and I did enjoy doing it all those years ago. But I’m older now, and it doesn’t appeal to me anymore.”

“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“I couldn’t understand the consequences of what I was doing back then. I thought I’d reinvented myself, but really I was just driven by pain and grief over what I’d lost. I had so much rage inside me and nowhere to put it, so I took it out on the world. I don’t want to become that person again.”

“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” she replied playfully. “Though in truth I like you much better now. Back then you only indulged me because you were in it for the fun and taboo of it all. Now we have something more.”

“I didn’t know what I really wanted at the time,” the ashen-haired girl admitted. “But I know myself better now. I’ll not abandon you. Not again.”

“Would you two like some time alone?” Syanna asked from behind them.

Ciri glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. “Why would we? You’ve heard us being far more intimate than this.”

“Besides, we’re almost at the village,” added Mistle. “There’ll be plenty of opportunities to be alone there.”

Syanna grumbled.

* * *

“I recognize this village,” said Ciri once it was in view. “We’re in Dun Dâre.”

Snow decorated the rooftops like thin lace, brilliant and unblemished, unlike the snow on the ground, which had mixed with mud and other detritus, with deep furrows carved through it by foot traffic and the occasional wagon. The village was much more full of life than when Ciri had first encountered it, in the middle of a blizzard where everything around her was white as bone.

Mistle spurred her horse to keep pace with Ciri’s far more energetic mare. “Of course we are. Did you think we were going somewhere else?”

“No. I suppose I just wasn’t paying attention. I wonder if they’ll remember me here.”

“Why?” asked Syanna. “Did you do something worth remembering?”

“Does slaughtering an entire tavern full of mercenaries count?”

“Depends on who they worked for.”

“Stefan Skellen. This was after he wounded me and I spent nearly two months recovering in a swamp south of here. I was… darker then. Darker than even Mistle remembers me. I walked into that tavern with nothing but blood on my mind, and I got what I was after.”

“So, maybe we don’t go to that tavern,” said Mistle. “We have a safehouse here anyway. Payment for a job we took a while back. That’s where we’ll find the others.”

“Lead on, then.”

They traveled through the main street of the village, counting roughly a dozen or so residents who were out performing their daily errands. The tavern was the only building of real importance, though there were merchant carts and stalls that had travelled from other settlements nearby. As they moved through, Ciri became aware of the glances she was getting as people began to notice her medallion, as well as the way she carried her sword. Maybe there was witcher’s work to be had after all.

An equal number of eyes fell upon Mistle, who rode through proudly. Ciri remembered how several villages used to offer safe haven to the Rats, since the benefits of the arrangement were mutual. They robbed from Nilfgaard, whom many that were native to Ebbing viewed as the oppressor, even now. None would betray their presence here; she was certain of that.

A minute later they arrived at the sign at the crossroads, and Ciri dismounted for a minute. A few scrolls were posted to it, mostly regarding a shortage of eggs or petty grievances between neighbors, but one in particular looked promising. People from the surrounding area had gone missing in the Pereplut swamp, and had not been heard from again.

“People disappear in the swamp all the time,” said Mistle. “Mostly they either get lost and starve, or they get stuck in the bog and drown. And that’s not counting the ones who get murdered by bandits.”

“I know that,” she replied. “Still, eight missing in the last week, including a hunting party? I told you, I stayed in that swamp for weeks. The dangers there would surpass your imagination.”

“Really? I can imagine quite a lot.”

“You’re the one who said I should find work.”

“You see what they’re offering? We could get more just by stealing it.”

“I told you, I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have this argument on the street,” said Syanna.

Ciri sighed, then mounted her horse again, and they continued on.

* * *

The safehouse that Mistle had described was on the outskirts of the village, removed from most of the other homes. It was a moderately sized structure with a door and a window, but looked too small to comfortably fit more than two people. They hitched their horses outside and Ciri sent a puzzled expression Mistle’s way, but the other woman continued walking, then opened the door. They entered, only to find the cottage empty.

“No one’s here.”

“Of course they are.” Mistle began rolling up a bearskin rug that covered the central part of the floor, revealing a hatch underneath, which she opened. “Just not upstairs.”

Shrugging, Ciri followed her down the ladder that led into a sprawling basement that was at least three times larger than the structure above, with small alcoves carved mostly out of earth and a series of wooden beams along the walls to hold up the ceiling. Several casks of wine, beer, and other alcohol lined one of the walls, though most of the slots were empty.

“Tavern used to store its liquor here, before they dug another cellar right underneath it,” explained Mistle. “Makes for a nice hideout, don’t you think?”

She nodded.

“Mistle!” Sheana Glaszwic surged across the chamber and nearly tackled her with a hug. The long, wheat-colored braid that stretched halfway down her back kept moving even after they made contact, batting the side of Mistle’s head. “We missed you!”

“I’m sure.” She banged her hand repeatedly against the nearest wooden beam. “Oi! Rats! Report for duty!”

Sheana recoiled instinctively once she noticed Ciri, unconsciously clutching her gut. Ciri narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

The rest of the gang came streaming in from the next chamber. Horace and Resilda were first, then Faloanthír. A few seconds later, Stephanos followed, limping with a hand pressed hard against the bandages on his chest.

“First order of business,” said Mistle, taking on a sudden authority. “I’m sure you all remember Falka. She’s here to stay for the time being. This is Syanna. She’ll be joining us as well.”

They all muttered various words of greeting, and she continued.

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

They all looked sheepishly between each other, before shaking their heads. Ciri glanced at Stephanos’ wound. “That doesn’t look good,” she remarked. “How did it happen?”

“Got in a fight,” he admitted. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” She walked closer, and several of them moved to block her before Mistle shook her head, and they withdrew. “May I see that?”

Staring at the floor, he nodded. “Aye.”

“Sit down over there,” she ordered, and he complied. She began to unwrap the makeshift bandages, taking note of how he grimaced and winced. When they were removed, she saw the wound, gaping and surrounded by blisters and burns, like the bank of a long, bloody river.

“Who were you fighting, exactly?”

Stephanos remained silent, as did the rest of the Rats.

“Well?” said Mistle. “Answer her!”

“We was raiding a village about five days after you left,” Horace replied finally. “Unicorn. Idea was to rob everyone in the tavern. We weren’t expecting a witcher.”

“A witcher this far south?” asked Syanna. “You’re sure?”

“This wound was made by a silver blade,” said Ciri, already grinding an herbal solution in a small mortar and pestle that she had retrieved from one of the pouches on her hip. She knelt down, using the small bench on which Stephanos was sitting as a makeshift table. “So yes, it seems likely.”

She moved closer, leaning over and inspecting the wound. “Why would silver do that to him?”

“Because… ah! Because of my curse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stephanos,” said Ciri, still grinding the herbs together, “is a werewolf. Especially vulnerable to silver. Though most wounds caused by silver don’t take this long to heal, unless the blade was enchanted somehow.”

“He had a sorceress with him,” said Sheana, quietly. “They seemed close.”

“This is exactly why I ploughing told you not to raid villages,” Mistle said, glaring out over all of them. “Especially not without me.”

Ciri finished grinding the herbs. “Can someone fetch me a bottle of spirit? It needs to be clear with a high alcohol content. And a copper pot, if you please.”

“On it,” replied Faloanthír, striding across the room and fetching a bottle.

Horace began scouring the rest of the room. “Does it have to be copper?”

“The alchemical reaction won’t work without it,” the witcheress revealed. “Sheana, build a fire upstairs, please.”

Sheana froze, then looked to Mistle, who crossed her arms.

“From now on, treat anything Falka tells you as if it came directly from me.”

Nodding, she raced up the ladder to carry out the order. Wordlessly, Resilda followed after her.

“No copper,” said Horace. “Tavern should have some, but…”

Mistle stood with her hands on her hips. “What is it?”

“Village folk don’t actually know we’re here. And there’s a bounty on us now. I know we pay them to keep quiet, but a lot of travelers drink there, and we’re known all over. We can’t show our faces there, especially not since word got out about what we tried at the tavern in Unicorn.”

“I need to be here seeing to this wound,” said Ciri. “And I already told you why I can’t go back there.”

Mistle frowned. “They know my face as well.”

“They don’t know mine,” said Syanna. “A copper pot, you say?”

Ciri nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

“Do you feel that?”

Lambert sat down across from her at a small wooden table, sliding Keira her drink, which she deftly caught and began to consume.

“Feel what?”

“There’s a strong source of magic somewhere in the area,” she said. “It’s too faint for your medallion to pick up from here, but it feels like an itch on the inside of my scalp. It wasn’t there ten minutes ago.”

He shrugged. “Well, we know they had an amateur magic user with ‘em. Maybe she’s somewhere practicing.”

“No, it would be much stronger if a spell were being cast. I’d be able to get a more precise location, too. But it’s definitely underground.”

“Elven ruins?”

Keira shook her head. “I know what those feel like. It’s too bad you don’t have any more of that creature’s blood. It would have helped immensely with a locating spell.”

“Thought we’d seen the last of ‘em.” He knocked back a swig of his ale. “Are we gonna talk about what happened?”

Folding her hands over her waist, the sorceress stared at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“How they literally disappeared right in front of us. You’re sure it wasn’t magic?”

“I didn’t feel any of the sensations normally associated with a teleportation spell, nor was there a portal. They were there one moment, gone the next. I’m afraid I don’t have an explanation.”

Lambert leaned back in his chair and polished off his glass. “Yeah, I figured as much. Gonna get another round.”

The tavern they had stopped in was more of a narrow hall, with a few bench seats closer to the entrance and private seating in the back. Not as nice as the one in Unicorn, but at least here they weren’t being rudely interrupted. He moved up to the bar and ordered another ale for himself, then leaned forward and rested on his elbows while he waited.

Behind him, the door opened and in walked a woman with raven black hair, dressed in light armor colored black and blue, with a sword at her waist. Her posture was the next thing to capture his attention, as she stood perfectly straight with her left arm tucked behind her back.

His refill slid into his hands, and Lambert drank some of it while keeping his ears open, not making his way back to the table yet. In this part of the world, a woman with a sword usually spelled trouble.

“Good day, Sir,” she said in an unfamiliar accent. It wasn’t pure Nilfgaardian, but it also wasn’t the norm in this part of the Empire. “Do you have any copper pots you’re willing to part with? I’m travelling with a group of performers and I’m afraid we’ve been beset by dreadful misfortune. We left our last pot over the fire last night and found it had melted beyond recognition by morning.”

Lambert chuckled, sipping his drink. “Shouldn’t be cooking with copper, then.”

“I know, but our chef was born and raised in Toussaint, where he once prepared meals for the lords and ladies. He cooks the fanciest of foods in that thing, and it truly brings out the flavor.”

“He does that on the road, huh? How hot do your campfires usually get?”

The woman blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He stood up straighter and turned to face her. “You’d need a forge to melt copper, not to mention it’s the middle of winter.”

“Yes, which is why it became so terribly brittle. At any rate, we shall need a replacement.” She looked to the innkeep. “Please Sir, can you find it in your heart? I’ll pay you for it, of course.”

Contemplating that for a moment, the innkeep disappeared into the back.

“As cover stories go, that was pretty good,” he said. “What do you really need the pot for?”

“If I said alchemy, would you believe me?”

“It’d make more sense at least.”

She smiled disarmingly, in a way that was clearly practiced. It would have appeared natural to a less cynical individual, but he saw right through it.

“You understand, of course, why I couldn’t simply tell that to an innkeeper,” she said. “Mages are kept on such a short leash in Nilfgaard it’s a wonder they don’t choke.”

His medallion was still as the grave, so she couldn’t be the source that Keira had mentioned. “You getting that for a mage, then?”

“Something like that.”

By this time the innkeep had returned from the back with a small copper pot, suitable for putting over a camp fire. The woman continued to pour on the charm.

“Thank you ever so much. What do I owe you?”

He waved his hand. “No charge. Good luck on your journey.”

“Oh! A thousand blessings to you, Sir! Good day!”

She turned around and walked out the door, dropping her smile as soon as the innkeep could no longer see. Lambert turned to Keira, who had watched the entire exchange, and tapped a finger twice against his head.

‘ _Have you found a lead, then?_ ’

‘ _Yeah. Gonna follow her a while. Stay in touch._ ’

‘ _Will do._ ’

* * *

The woman’s scent lingered for quite a while, and was very distinct from the smells of the rest of the village. It was high class perfume, which matched both the elegant armor and the formal posture she had adopted. Her story was full of holes, but had a few elements of truth to it. As soon as she mentioned Toussaint, all the pieces fell into place.

Both the perfume and the accent confirmed that the woman originated from the so-called fairy tale duchy to the north of where they currently were. Her footprints were easy to follow as well, since her boots were several cuts above what the peasants around here wore, which left a unique trail. After a minute or so he caught sight of her, careful to keep his distance and letting her disappear behind corners before following her tracks.

The village was not especially large, which made it curious that her tracks led in random directions, doubling back on themselves repeatedly. Lambert sighed. Just as he’d been on to her, she had suspected him since the moment he spoke. Subtlety was not exactly his forte.

Okay then. Time for more direct measures.

Taking a sharp right, he cut her off just as she turned out from the space between two houses. She held the pot in her right hand, tucking the left behind her back like she had earlier. She smiled, a touch more sinister than before.

“Are you hunting me, Witcher?”

Lambert stared hard at her. “Depends.”

“On what? All I’ve done is get a pot. Nothing strange about that.”

“No, that would be the armor, the sword, and the fake charm. You’re way too high class for a place like this. The kind of person who wouldn’t come here unless they had a reason to.”

“I do hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are,” she said. “I’m not your usual quarry. Nothing monstrous about me.”

“I’m not hunting monsters today.”

“Oh? And what _are_ you hunting?”

He sighed. His instincts were practically screaming at him not to trust her, but this conversation was going nowhere. “Look, I’m not after you. I just want to know if you’ve seen some people. A gang, actually.”

“What sort of gang?”

“They call themselves the Rats,” he elaborated. “I’m working for someone who wants ‘em gone. You know anyone like that?”

The woman shrugged. “If you want rats, I suggest you start searching floorboards.”

“Damn it, I don’t have the patience for this,” he muttered. “Do you know anything or not?”

“Even if I did, what incentive would I have to tell you?”

“The incentive that you get to keep your head, for starters.”

She smirked. “Wow. That’s a great motivational tactic.”

“Fine.” He stepped to the side. “Go on then. If you change your mind, I’m sure you can find me.”

The woman walked past him, and he knelt down, focusing on her scent, and committing it to memory.

‘ _Have you made any progress?_ ’

He grumbled, then responded. ‘ _Depends on your definition of progress. This woman’s shady as hell, but she might not have anything to do with our missing bandits. I’m gonna let her think I gave up and follow her tracks in a few minutes._ ’

‘ _I’ve not turned up anything here, either. Shall I join you?_ ’

‘ _Give it about five minutes, then wait out front. You’ll see me._ ’

‘ _indeed I shall. Best of luck_.’

“Yeah,” he said aloud. “I’m gonna need it.”

* * *

“Where the hell is she?” asked Ciri, still cleaning the wound as Stephanos hissed in pain. “The herbs are ready but we won’t get anywhere without that pot.”

Horace shrugged. “Maybe the tavern didn’t have any?”

“I sincerely hope not, for your friend’s sake. What were you thinking, challenging a witcher like that?”

“Didn’t know he’d be there. Him or the sorceress.”

“Well you should have listened to Mistle. Unicorn isn’t even a Nilfgaardian settlement. You’ve probably antagonized people who would otherwise be on your side.”

“Only wanted to rob the travelers. We weren’t making nearly enough just sticking to the safe jobs.”

“This is what happens when you don’t,” said Mistle, sitting on a nearby chair with her arms crossed. “You got arrogant, full of yourself, and thought you could take on the world. That’s not always a mistake you can walk away from.”

He frowned, then stood and walked away. “Yeah, I get it.”

By now they had moved a proper table to where they were sitting. The wound was mostly cleaned by now, but it had been at least four days and it had not so much as scabbed over. Not even wolfsbane could do this. It must be a spell.

Struck with an idea, Ciri retrieved the cat medallion from her hip, holding it next to the wound. It trembled slightly, and her eyes lit up.

Mistle leaned over her shoulder. “Have you learned something?”

“Maybe. There’s magic of some sort, but I can’t be certain if it’s because a spell is keeping the wound open or if I’m just picking up his true nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“Witcher medallions aren’t nearly as precise as an identifying spell. They just tell you whether or not magic is present; not the nature of it. Sometimes I really wish I could still use conjuring.”

“Just be careful who you make that wish to.”

She chuckled. “Don’t worry. I gave it up for a reason. But there’s nothing wrong with missing a time when things were simpler.”

“You got that right.”

Ciri leaned over Stephanos and continued cleaning the wound. “The salve I’m preparing should help with the pain, but we need to stitch this. Do you have any sewing thread?”

“Not down here.”

Stephanos was barely lucid by this point, no longer even groaning in pain. “Stephanos? Hey! Talk to me!”

“Uhhhhh…”

She smacked him across the face, but there was no response.

“Damn it, fever’s set in. We need to get that fucking pot!”

“Syanna can’t have gone far,” said Mistle, standing up and taking the rag from her. “I can watch him for now. You’re the least likely to be recognized around the village, so long as you don’t go in the tavern.”

She nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, she left the cellar, walking out the door to find that Sheana and Resilda had started the fire behind the small hut. She looked back at the structure, and remembered that it had no chimney. This was the only place they could fulfill her request and remain out of sight.

“Has Syanna come back yet?”

They both shook their heads.

“Fantastic. I’m going to look for her. If she gets here before I’m back, fill the pot with water and bring it to a boil, then get the herbs from downstairs. Understood?”

Sheana nodded.

“Good.” Ciri turned around and walked towards the village.

* * *

Lambert walked past the entrance to the tavern just as Keira made her way outside, and she fell in silently behind him. The crowd was sparse enough that she was able to drop the telepathy and communicate with him out loud.

“I don’t know how you passed the last few minutes, but I was able to more accurately pinpoint the magic disturbance in the area. It’s still underground, near the outskirts.” She concentrated for a moment. “And it’s getting stronger.”

“Still no idea what it is, though?”

“It’s not a form of magic I’m familiar with. I recognize elements of it, but the signal is… corrupted. There’s too much interference. Like trying to hear a butterfly’s wingbeats in the middle of a swarm of cicadas.”

He turned down a space between two houses, and she followed. Then he turned left, doubled back, and led her in a circle before walking off in a completely new direction.

“Does this trail actually lead anywhere?”

“Every trail leads somewhere,” he replied. “This woman’s smart, though. Too smart to show up here without reason.”

“Pardon my saying so, but if that’s true then how can she have anything to do with our quarry?”

Lambert shrugged. “Ringleader, maybe? None of the people we faced seemed like they were in charge. Everyone we’ve talked to said there was a sixth member, and that their hideout was here. I just have a gut feeling, and that’s never steered me wrong before.”

“First time for everything.”

He stopped and turned around. “Look, I don’t actually need you to help me follow this trail. You can go back to the tavern if you want, or chase down whatever it is you’re sensing.”

Keira crossed her arms and cocked one hip. “Have you considered what you’re going to do once you catch up with this woman? It didn’t work out swimmingly before. Let’s face it, Lambert: you’ve never been much of a talker.”

“Talking isn’t what I had in mind. There are other methods I can use.”

“In the middle of a peasant village? Please. Once we find her I can just compel her with magic. You’ll find I can be very persuasive.”

He smiled hideously. “I love you.”

“Not the time for sentiment, darling.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, then winced.

“What is it?”

“We’re drawing closer to the source of the magic. It doesn’t hurt, but it is rather distracting. I’d be able to focus better if I just knew what it was.”

“My medallion still hasn’t picked up anything.”

“Very well. Lead on, then.”

They spent the next five minutes following boot tracks in the mud, eventually exiting the village entirely. Here the trail became clear enough that even Keira was able to follow it. They passed the trees and entered the woods surrounding Dun Dâre, where the tracks abruptly stopped a few meters in. Keira scanned around, seeing nothing.

“Where did…?”

“You can come out now!” shouted Lambert. “I can hear you!”

The woman stepped out from behind a nearby tree, still carrying the pot. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

“That’s not something I’m known for, no.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t the first time I’ve met a witcher from the School of the Wolf.”

“Was it Geralt? He’s always meeting shady women who like to take advantage of him.”

She only chuckled.

“What are you really doing out here?” asked Keira. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to cover your tracks over a pot.”

“I don’t like being followed.”

“No surprise there. Do you also not like having your mind read?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Does anyone?”

“You’d be surprised. But let us dispense with hypotheticals and obfuscations. We are here to root out an infestation, and either you will choose to help us, or you will experience a great deal of pain, and help us anyway.”

“You know what?” She dropped the pot. “I choose pain.”

Closing the distance between them with remarkable speed, she drew her sword and slashed upwards, only to be blocked by Lambert, whose blade was already drawn. She took half a step back and thrust again, aiming at his head. The Witcher batted the sword aside with contemptuous ease, then rushed into her space and checked her with his shoulder.

She stumbled back, dazed, and tripped over an exposed root. Lambert raised the sword above his head, and swung down faster than she could raise her blade to stop it.

The space between them suddenly flashed with a brilliant green light, and his sword was halted as it hit something solid. Standing between them, gritting her teeth and pushing back against the blade, was a young woman with green eyes, ashen hair, and a scar that ran all the way down her left cheek.

“Ciri?”

“Lambert?” Her gaze shifted slightly. “Keira? What are you doing here?”

Keira crossed her arms. “We could very well ask you the same thing.”

“It’s a long story.” Lambert sheathed his sword, and she did the same, allowing Syanna to stand up. “Why are you attacking my friend?”

Lambert glanced rapidly between them, his face betraying his utter bewilderment. “Your _friend_?”

“Technically, I attacked them.” Syanna bent down and retrieved something from the ground. “Found your pot.”

“Wait, so the witcher and the sorceress the Rats ran into… that was you?”

“How do you know the Rats?” Keira’s eyes moved to Ciri’s left temple. “And what’s that on your face?”

“Part of that long story. I’d love to stay and chat, but I need that pot to prepare a remedy for something. It’s rather time sensitive.”

“A remedy for what?”

She looked away, sheepishly. “A wound caused by a silver sword.”

Keira and Lambert exchanged a glance.

“I’ll explain everything. I just need you to give me a few minutes.”

“Shall we accompany you?”

“No offense, Keira, but you’re the last people my friends want to see right now. I’ll be back.”

“If the wound is serious, I could help you,” she offered. “Though I agree: Lambert should stay out here.”

Lambert whipped his head around to face her. “What?”

“You heard her. If you go and introduce yourself to them it will end in another bloodbath.”

“Which is exactly what we were hired to do!”

“Not necessarily. If you recall, our client never specifically mentioned killing them. Merely that we were to deal with them as we saw fit.”

He crossed his arms and grumbled. “Killing them would be faster.”

Ciri blinked. “You were hired?”

“That’s a long story as well. Lambert here doesn’t believe in diplomatic solutions, whereas I am ever hopeful. We had no idea these Rats were your friends.”

“They are. Well come on, then. Syanna, could you stay out here and keep Lambert company? I want both of you to be nice.”

“As do I,” said Keira.

Lambert and Syanna both crossed their arms and huffed, then sighed. “Fine,” they said in unison.

“When you get back,” said Lambert, “I want to hear every last bit of that long story.”

“You will,” promised Ciri. “I guarantee it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're starting a new story arc. As fun as Toussaint was, it's good to be writing other locations again. We'll be getting to know the new members of the Rats a lot better over the next few chapters, and we'll see how well Keira and Lambert fit into all this. Enjoy!


	19. A Fair Day's Pay

“Exactly what sort of remedy are you preparing?” asked Keira as they walked towards a lone hut on the outskirts of the village, about ten meters removed from any other buildings. The hut was flush against the woods, which gave way to the Pereplut swamp a few miles south of Dun Dâre.

“A salve, to dull the pain. It’s mainly celandine and aloe, with a little bit of poppy milk.”

“That won’t do much more than ease someone’s passing. Have you cleaned the wound at least?”

“I have, but fever’s set in. The wound’s been festering for days, and it hasn’t closed. Can silver do that?”

Keira shrugged. “I’m not an expert on werewolves. You should be, given your training.”

“I was only taught how to hunt and kill werewolves, not heal them. Why were you in Unicorn anyway?”

“Making a stop for the night. We’re in Ebbing on business.”

“What sort of business?”

“Well…”

By this time they had walked close enough to see the fire going behind the structure, along with the two young women sitting beside it. They looked up as Ciri and Keira approached, and fear clutched their faces as they rapidly stood.

“It’s alright!” Ciri shouted, motioning for them to stay put. “Calm down. I understand you two have already encountered Keira Metz. Keira, this is Sheana Glaszwic and Resilda Trevohort.”

She crossed her arms. “I remember you. Nothing to say for yourselves?”

They stared, deathly silent.

“Fill this with water and boil it,” said Ciri, handing the pot to Sheana. “We’re going to head downstairs and grab the herbs.”

Sheana stood there rigidly before walking off towards the nearest stream. Ciri led Keira around the front and through the door, down the ladder, then into the cellar. Mistle, Horace, and Faloanthír were still there, hovering over Stephanos’ near unconscious form.

He was sweating harder than before, muttering to himself. Keira clutched her head as the magic feedback became practically unbearable, but powered through it.

Horace had pulled out his bow, nocking an arrow but not aiming it just yet. “What’s she doing here?”

“Found the sorceress you ran into,” said Ciri, arms crossed with one hip cocked to the left. “Horace, Faloanthír, Mistle… this is Keira Metz. She’s a friend.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Keira. “But it is thanks to me that none of you were skewered by Lambert’s blade.” She glanced down at the wounded man. “Well, aside from him.”

Cocking her head, Mistle stood up. “You know her?”

“Yes. She’s a member of the Lodge of Sorceresses, along with Yennefer and Triss.”

“Former member,” corrected Keira. “I look out for my own interests now.”

“And who’s Lambert?”

“A witcher,” answered Ciri. “He helped train me when I was young.”

“That’s an awful coincidence,” said Horace, crossing his arms.

“You’re telling me. I’ve been dealing with a lot of those lately.”

“As thrilling as it is getting to know you all, I believe we have more pressing matters,” said Keira. She looked at Stephanos. “I can offer some assistance with that wound.”

Mistle glanced to Ciri, who nodded, then stepped back. “By all means.”

“ _Eigan, iarean me_.”

Keira’s voice reverberated throughout the space, and her eyes glowed white as sparks danced across her fingers. A thin, gossamer sheet of blue energy fell upon Stephanos, and his body stiffened immediately. As soon as it touched him, it was repulsed by red and black smoke that manifested seemingly from nowhere, blocking her attempts to diagnose the problem. She concentrated, but met with even greater resistance.

After a minute or so she stopped, and the smoke receded back as though it had never been there.

“Well, at least now I know what I was sensing. Your friend is gripped by a powerful curse.”

“Of course he is,” said Mistle. “He’s a werewolf.”

“It’s not just that. I sense powerful necrotic energy, indicating some form of blood magic. Not my area of expertise, exactly, but it may be why the wound hasn’t closed.”

Ciri crossed her arms and leaned against one of the wooden beams. “Did you do anything to Lambert’s swords?”

“As though he’d ever let me near them.” She looked to the rest of the group. “My question is, why are all of you associating with a werewolf to begin with?”

Faloanthír glared, stepping closer. “What’s it to you, witch?”

Tilting her head to the side, Keira narrowed her eyes at the elf. Finally, she responded. “I understand your reticence to trust me, given our last encounter. Lambert and I were in fact contracted to hunt all of you down. Were it not for Ciri, I wouldn’t be talking to you at all.”

Horace blinked. “Who the hell is Ciri?”

“Me.” She raised her hand. “I told Mistle to call me Falka in front of you because I wasn’t sure who to trust. But I guess that secret’s out.”

Keira turned to her. “You chose Falka as your alias? Whatever for?”

She shrugged. “It’s what I went by the last time I ran with this gang. I met Mistle shortly after the Mages’ Rebellion on Thanedd, after I went through the Tor Lara portal and eventually found my way here. At the time I wanted to be someone else.”

“You really must explain this at length to me,” she replied. “But a man is dying, so that can wait. I ask again: who is he to all of you?”

“We were mates before the war,” said Horace. “He deserted after getting cursed. Next time I saw him he said he met a witch in the Pereplut swamp who helped him get it under control.”

“We’re near the Pereplut swamp,” said Ciri. “I know my way around it somewhat. If we can find this same witch, she may be able to help us find out what’s wrong with him.”

Keira sighed and shook her head. “This is why black magic is outlawed. Instead of fixing his problem, whoever did this countered the effects of one curse by inflicting him with another. That made him even more vulnerable to silver, to the point where the most likely outcome is that he’ll die.”

“And there’s nothing we can do?” asked Mistle.

“We can apply the salve for now, and give him fresh bandages,” said Ciri. “But in my experience the best way to break a curse is to find out exactly how it was cast.”

“Breaking it won’t do him any favors either,” said Keira. “He’ll only become a mindless beast again, unable to control his transformation. It may be more humane just to put him out of his misery.”

Ciri shook her head. “I’m not giving up before we even try. Lambert and I can go into the swamp, while you work on stabilizing him here.” She turned to Horace. “Did he describe this witch? Give you a general location?”

“No. But he carries an amulet she gave him.”

Mistle gently wrapped her fingers around a fang shaped necklace, holding it up for them to see. Keira muttered a spell incantation, then nodded.

“It has a distinct magical signature,” she confirmed. “The one who enchanted that is indeed in the swamp, though I can’t narrow down an exact location. Take Lambert; he’s a much better tracker than I am. I will stay here and see about keeping this man alive until you get back.’

Ciri took the necklace from her hands, then looked over the rest of the gang. “Promise me you’ll play nice.”

“Of course,” said Mistle. “Come back soon.”

“I’ll try.”

In a flash of green, she vanished.

* * *

“So what’s your story?” Lambert asked as soon as Ciri and Keira left. “Really.”

“As a child I made oil out of linseed in a small workshop,” she said. “One day the foreman took me behind a shed and—”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine. I was a miller’s daughter. During the off season, he liked to hunt. I was out with him when a group of bandits cut off his head and made off with me and the horses. I bided my time until I finally gathered the courage to face them, then I—”

“No you didn’t.”

Syanna smirked. “How do you know I’m lying?”

“Because you could never pass as a commoner unless you were trying to fool a blind and deaf rock troll, who’d still have to be high on fisstech to swallow any of that bullshit.” He crossed his arms. “Look at you. Your armor and sword are expensive as hell, you’re wearing perfume that costs at least a thousand crowns, and you have an upper class Toussaintois accent.”

“All easily acquired by stealing from those more fortunate than myself.”

“Very true.” He paced back and forth, his cat-like eyes still focused on her. “But you have something money can’t buy.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“A superiority complex as big as the sun.” He moved to her right and stopped, looking her up and down. “I’ve met your type before. You walk like the world itself was promised to you, and when you can’t get what you want, you try and take it. Am I right so far?”

Syanna shrugged. “A great many nobles have been known to fall into banditry. What of it?”

“I don’t know. Something just isn’t adding up.”

She glanced up at him, eyes half-lidded. “Should we duel again?”

“Wasn’t much of a duel. Besides, I can handle Keira getting mad at me, but Ciri? She’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

She stared deadpan at him. “I’ll be sure to give her my thanks.”

It was silent for a few moments and both of them shuffled around the space, kicking up leaves and inspecting the ground. Finally Lambert sighed in boredom.

“So was I right in thinking Geralt was the other witcher you met?”

Syanna nodded. “We spent a few hours together when I was in… a difficult spot. He helped me out and I repaid the favor. Simple as that.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, we also fucked.”

“Of course. Everybody _loves_ Geralt.”

A smirk flashed across her face. “Should you really be complaining given who you showed up with?”

“Hey, I’m not jealous, okay? Just making a point.”

“To a complete stranger?”

Lambert grumbled.

“If it’s any consolation, I was the one who ended up discarding him like a used tissue afterward.”

“Ha. That actually does make me feel better.”

“I am curious,” she said, pacing in a circle around him, “how Ciri’s opinion is so important to you that you value it over that of the woman you love.”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“You’re right.” She threw her hands up and stepped back. “Just curious.”

“Maybe you should be a little more honest about yourself before you start asking me anything.”

She crossed her arms and cocked one hip, staring at him with her jaw firmly clenched. “That goes both ways.”

He stared back. “Fair enough.”

They quieted again for a minute or so, before Ciri appeared in a sudden burst of green light, arms folded over her chest with her lips slightly pursed.

“I trust you two are behaving?”

“Of course,” said Syanna, not breaking eye contact with him. “We’ve become fast friends.”

“Yeah. We were about to tell campfire stories and braid each other’s hair.”

“Well, I should be thankful you haven’t killed each other at least.” Her face had now disappeared into her palm. “Syanna, can you help them inside? I need Lambert for something.”

“As you wish.” She walked further out into the forest, disappearing into the treeline.

“You need me for something, huh? What, exactly?”

“I’m sure you remember the werewolf you wounded back in Unicorn.”

He nodded. “Was looking forward to finishing the job.”

“Well he’s very important to my friends, and I need your aid finding someone who can heal him.”

“Ciri, what the hell is wrong with you?” He marched forward into her space, towering over her. “You know what werewolves can do if they’re around this many people. Why are you protecting him?”

She stood her ground, staring back at him with burning eyes. “For one thing, he’s not an ordinary werewolf. The way his friend tells it, he found a witch in the Pereplut swamp a few miles from here, who helped him bring his curse under control. According to Keira it involved some sort of blood magic.”

“How the hell is that possible?”

“She said that to alleviate one curse, this individual afflicted him with another, making him even more vulnerable to silver. The magic is strong enough that she could sense it all the way from the tavern.”

“So that’s what she wouldn’t shut up about.” He shook his head rapidly. “But even if that’s true, you’re defending a gang of people who murder and steal for a living.”

“I am,” she said. “Because I’m just like them. I was part of the same gang almost six years ago.” She turned her face to the side, staring at the ground. “It had different members then.”

“I still don’t see why that means I should help them.”

“Why do you care, anyway? Witchers don’t enforce the law. We don’t seek out evildoers and bring them to justice. We hunt monsters for coin.”

A deep, exasperated sigh escaped him. “And a werewolf is a monster. I don’t give a fuck about the rest of these miserable shits, but if he’s dying, then I say let him die.”

Ciri reached into one of her pouches and retrieved a parchment. “If I can’t convince you to help me for old times’ sake, I’ll just tell you there’s a witcher’s contract in the swamp as well. If you go with me you can have the entire reward.”

“So that’s it? You’re bribing me now?”

“Do you trust me or not, Lambert?”

“I don’t know; you haven’t been acting like the Ciri I remember.”

“And how would you know who that is?” Throwing her arms in the air, she moved forward until they were face to face. “Your memory of me begins and ends at Kaer Morhen. I’ve been other places, seen other things, been other people! You have no idea who I am!”

She punctuated that last exclamation by shoving him hard in his chest, and he recoiled a bit before catching himself.

“Starting to think that might be the truth.” Sitting down on a nearby stump, he rested his forehead in his palm and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll go with you. Otherwise I expect Keira will make me answer with my balls. Though that could be fun.”

“You are disgusting.”

He laughed. “Get used to it.”

* * *

“So what does the notice say?” Lambert asked as they walked back to the tavern, where the horses had been tied. Ciri had already retrieved Kelpie and was leading her by the reins as they walked up the main street.

“You mean you’re actually going to take me up on that?”

“I just figure as long as we’re going to the swamp anyway, there’s no reason I can’t make a little coin while we’re at it.”

Ciri chuckled. “That actually does sound like you.”

“Hey, the only reason I’m even entertaining this is because of you. Otherwise I’d be more than happy to slaughter everybody and get out of this hellhole.”

“Who hired you anyway?”

He shrugged. “Some rich guy in Claremont. Keira made a deal with him to manufacture her Catriona cure, but the whoreson won’t sell it with all these bandits in the area. So he asked us to take care of a few for him.”

“Well you’ve got your work cut out for you. The Rats are hardly the only gang in these parts.”

“I’m not even thinking about that right now. We’ll find another way of making him do it. In the meantime, the notice?”

“Right.” Sliding two fingers into a pouch, she produced the parchment and began to read from it.

 

**_HELP PLEASE!_ **

**_These winters are harsh enough on their own, but now we are threatened by_ **   
**_the loss of our loved ones. Three days before Saovine, the first two went_**   
**_missing. Then another disappeared five days later. We sent out a hunting_ **   
**_party of five brave souls, but none have returned. All of them went missing in_ **   
**_the Pereplut swamp, a few hours’ ride from here. If any are brave enough to_ **   
**_venture into the swamp and discover what happened, they will be awarded_ **   
**_fifty Nilfgaardian florens, and a debt of gratitude from the village of Dun Dâre_ **   
**_for all time._ **

**_Ealdorman Uriah Stonefeldt_ **

“Fifty florens? For eight missing people? Forget it Ciri, we’re not dealing with these cheapskates.”

Ciri looked around at the village folk. A number of them were bundled up in whatever rags they could muster, and she spied several of them whose boots had worn through. The travelers seemed to be doing well enough, and were probably the main source of income around here, but the poor numbered among them as well. She frowned and looked back to Lambert.

“It could be all they can spare. And you said yourself, we’re headed in that direction anyway. A bit of coin is better than no coin at all, right?”

“You only say that because you suck at negotiating.”

“Got you to come along, didn’t I?” She smirked proudly as he grimaced. She stepped back, extending her arms in a flourish as she inclined her head slightly. “But why not take this as an opportunity to show me how it’s done?”

“Fine.” He snatched the notice from her hands, then scanned around for the Ealdorman’s house.

They found it a few minutes later, and hitched their horses outside. Lambert went first, with Ciri trailing behind him. It was noticeably larger than the other houses in the village, but not obscenely so. Much of the paint had been stripped away by the elements, and flowers dangled from the overhang above the porch. A simple wooden door awaited them, and he raised his hand up, rapping against it three times with his knuckles.

Thirty seconds passed before they heard from a voice from the other side. “Who is it?”

“Someone who can make a problem go away,” he shouted. “Here about your notice.”

There was another long pause before they heard the clicking of a key being inserted into a lock, and the door opened. Before them stood a tall man with grey hair and brown eyes magnified by thick spectacles. His hairline had receded past the top of his head, and was thinning on the sides. He wore a fine, black silk robe with a belt tied around his waist.

What both of them noticed right away was that he had a penchant for expensive jewelry, but absolutely no taste. He wore a gold bangle with inset rubies around his wrist, while the other bore a silver bracelet with emeralds. A golden necklace dangled as far as his chest, and he had a silver-tipped cane. The ensemble was completely ludicrous and would get him laughed out of any high society gathering, but it probably impressed the locals.

Ciri had harbored suspicions as to why the Rats received such favorable treatment in this village, and now they were confirmed. She frowned.

“Welcome to Dun Dâre,” he greeted. “I am the Ealdorman, Uriah Stonefeldt.” He jumped slightly as he got a better view of Lambert. “A witcher! Well, I dare say you _can_ make this problem go away. Come in, come in!”

Both of them entered, and felt the door close behind them. As soon as it did, the Ealdorman dashed around them, inserting a large key into the lock and turning it. Ciri and Lambert exchanged a glance.

“Apologies; one can never be too careful,” he said. “Bandits are everywhere in these parts, you know.”

“Yes,” said Ciri, glaring harshly at him. “All around.”

He squinted at her, then turned back to Lambert. “Is she your apprentice?”

“Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms and sending the same harsh look his way. “No substitute for on the job training.”

“I know exactly what you mean!” Uriah shook his finger in the air for emphasis and spun around, heading towards a liquor cabinet. “Drink?”

“No thank you.”

He shrugged. “Well, more for me. And you, young miss?”

Ciri continued to glare. “I’m fine.”

Though the house was moderately sized, it was lavishly decorated, with art more befitting of a palace than the home of a village elder. There was a desk at the far end of the space, with several chairs and a bearskin rug in the center, next to a fireplace. All Ciri could think about was the number of starving children she had seen outside. And all he wanted to give them was fifty florens?

“Doing well for yourself,” said Lambert, clearly having the same realization that she was.

“That’s the point of life, isn’t it?” He sat down in a large chair, holding a glass of bourbon in his right hand. “Please, sit.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Me as well.”

“Ah. I suppose that’s one downside to wearing swords on your back.”

Lambert shrugged. “Not any easier to sit with one at your hip.”

“Very true!” he laughed and pointed, intensifying Ciri’s desire to set him ablaze. “Though I suppose it depends on the chair. You’re here about the contract, you said?”

“We are. Eight people missing in a week, right? Sounds like witcher’s work.”

“That it does.”

“Any connection between the people who went missing? Besides the fact that all of them disappeared in the swamp?”

The Ealdorman shrugged. “They were all residents of the village—no travelers among them. A few members of the hunting party were related to those who had gone missing, but other than that? Nothing.”

“Their names weren’t on the notice. Should we be looking for anybody in particular?”

“Not really. Like any village, people come and go. But ask around town and I’m sure you can find out.”

Ciri leaned against a wall, standing on one foot with her arms crossed. “Do people often go missing in the swamp?”

“On occasion. It’s a dangerous place. My own daughter disappeared there some two years back. But I made my peace with it. It’s how life is around here.”

“You ever find her body?”

He shook his head. “Believe me, if someone goes missing in that swamp, it becomes near impossible to find them.”

“Then it sounds like you should be paying better,” said Lambert. “Fifty florens for eight lost souls isn’t enough. Especially not if there’s a monster involved.”

Regarding him shrewdly, the Ealdorman held his glass still and pondered. “You must understand, the village has fallen on hard times recently, what with the winter and everything…”

“You haven’t been hit hard at all.”

“Is a man not entitled to enjoy what he’s earned over his life? If the rest of the village were a little more productive, perhaps they too could enjoy the fruits of their labors.”

Ciri listened silently, but her green irises began to glow brighter as she clenched her jaw.

“Of course,” said Lambert, his voice dripping with the most caustic sarcasm she had heard in a while. “So why don’t you enjoy yourself by throwing some actual money at the problem? Fifty florens per body found, plus two hundred for the monster.”

“That is absurd!”

“It’s what you should expect to pay if you want to hire a witcher. You understand how it works: if you buy something, you get what you pay for.”

He glared. “And I am paying precisely what I think the job is worth. It’s some missing villagers, nothing more. If there’s a monster involved, then we can discuss terms when you come back with its head, but I certainly won’t pay you such a ludicrous sum. If you can’t agree to that, there are plenty of others willing to take this contract.”

“You seem to be having trouble understanding.” He moved closer, and Uriah retreated further into his chair, his cane clattering to the ground. “So let me break it down for you. You already sent people after this problem, and they never came back. If you think any halfway competent contractor is gonna take the price you’re offering, you’re out of your ploughing mind.”

“I think the offer is perfectly fair and—”

“And you’re wrong. The next group of whoresons you hire might disappear too, but it won’t be in the swamp. They’ll just take that coin and go drinking for a week. You can try your luck with them, or you can hire a professional. Your choice.”

“I choose that you should leave!” He stood and pointed to the door. “Get out of my house!”

Lambert stood there, not flinching. “Gotta unlock the door first.”

He started moving towards the door. Ciri pushed herself off the wall and blocked his path.

“What do you want? Get out of my way!”

“You know,” she said, looking at her fingers as she curled them into her palm one by one, “when I ran with the Rats, we used to wear jewelry a lot like yours. We’d give most of the spoils we took from Nilfgaard to the villagers, who would be so overcome with gratitude that they would rather die than betray us. Am I starting to make sense?”

He stared at her, silently, holding the key in one hand and his untouched drink in the other.

“No? Then I’ll continue. I know exactly where your money came from, Uriah Stonefeldt, and it wasn’t the fruits of your labor.” The glow surrounding her eyes began to flare brighter. “You were given that money in good faith, on the assumption that the entire village would share in your good fortune. But you’ve kept it all to yourself while the Nilfgaardians take everything from their share.”

“Lying whore!” The hand holding the key rose to slap her, but Lambert caught it effortlessly, then drew his sword a few inches out of its scabbard. “Let go of me!”

“The thing is, all that good fortune you’ve been experiencing could… vanish.” She moved her hand in front of his nose and snapped her fingers. “Just like that. I’m sure there are many in the village who’d be eager to replace you. Isn’t that the real reason you keep your door locked?”

“I…”

“If I were you,” said Lambert, “I would think very carefully about your next words.”

“Fifty a head,” he said, staring at the floor with his eyes half-lidded. “Plus two hundred for the monster.”

Ciri grabbed the drink from his hand and downed it in a single gulp. “And you’ll pay us half in advance?”

“What? That was never part of the—ow!” Lambert twisted his wrist, causing him to drop the key. “All right! All right! Half in advance, here!”

Reaching onto his belt, he handed over a coin pouch containing three hundred florens, which Ciri gladly accepted. “Now please, go!”

Lambert sheathed his blade and released the Ealdorman’s wrist, then leaned in close. “The next time you raise a hand against her,” he said, low and rumbling, “will be the last time you have hands.”

He nodded furiously, not taking his chances with a retort. Retrieving the key from the ground, he scrambled to the door and unlocked it, and they both stepped back out into the village. Ciri tossed the coin purse in the air, catching it casually. She glanced at Lambert and smirked.

“Now who sucks at negotiating?”

* * *

“His condition is worsening.” Keira delivered the news so matter-of-factly that she may as well have been discussing the migratory patterns of small birds. The glow around her hands intensified. “The stabilizing spell can only do so much.”

Mistle nodded, then frowned. “Will he make it?”

“It’s difficult to say. I was trained in classical magic, like learning to play in a symphony. Black magic is more akin to a circle of peasants beating drums around a bonfire. Different instruments make different melodies, and the rhythm doesn’t always match up.”

“Do you know any black magic?”

“I know of it at the very least. It’s most commonly used for curses, like the one your friend is afflicted with. It has a much lower barrier to entry than purer forms of magic, and it can have unintended side effects if one is not careful. That’s one of the reasons it was outlawed centuries ago.”

“That raises the question then,” said Faloanthír, pacing around them in a semicircle, “of who would know enough about it to skirt those laws.”

“There are very few human mages who still know the rites,” she said. “I heard Yennefer of Vengerberg dabbled in necromancy, but to be perfectly honest the dark arts are mostly practiced by the more dangerous post-Conjunction creatures, such as leshens, hags, or crones. And nobody I’m aware of is this skilled in blood magic, one of the rarest forms.”

“Ciri introduced me to Yennefer recently,” said Mistle. “We didn’t take a liking to one another.”

“Don’t feel special. It’s a rare occasion when she does approve of someone.”

She chuckled.

“Magic’s all the same,” said Horace. “A bunch of hocus pocus that makes everybody’s lives more miserable.”

“It can improve lives as well,” she said. “If the hand wielding it is steady and fair. There’s a great deal of difference between a highly skilled sorceress and a village witch. Magic in and of itself isn’t inherently malevolent, though it can be dangerous. As I’m sure your friend upstairs can attest.”

He surged forward, but was blocked by Mistle, who shook her head.

“I must admit that I was intrigued to meet such a young pyromancer,” Keira continued, maintaining her spell. “It’s clear she’s never had any formal instruction, but she does have a very strong connection to the Power. Did she do that to her face on accident?”

“No,” said Mistle. “The North did.”

“Then it seems I must apologize for the North. Things have not gone well there for magic users in recent years.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“Why are you helping us? These dunderheads gave me the impression that you and the Witcher were set on hunting us down.”

“We were. It’s fortunate you’re friends with the one person who could hope to change Lambert’s mind.”

“And what about you?”

Keira glanced up from her patient and looked Mistle in the eye. “I never intended on killing you in the first place. Our client specifically told us to deal with the Rats in any manner we see fit, and I don’t see the sense in just killing you. You’re all too young to be slaughtered. Besides, the man tried to flaunt how clever he was by twisting my words, so I’m doing the same to him.”

Crossing his arms, Faloanthír stared hard at her. “Is that the only reason?”

“I must confess I was curious what sort of gang would ally itself with a werewolf and an amateur magic user. Now that I know you’re friends of Ciri’s I’m even more intrigued. How do you know her?”

“She was part of the original gang,” said Mistle. “The rest is for her to tell you.”

“I suppose that’s fair. How is the salve coming along?”

“The water’s boiling,” said Syanna, who had just descended via the ladder. “And we’ve placed the herbs in there. But none of us are herbalists.”

“You don’t have to be.” She grimaced slightly, the sweat on her brow thickening as she concentrated harder. “Let it boil for ten minutes, then empty it into a strainer and bring the contents to me. I shall instruct you on how to mix them.”

“Very well.” She climbed the ladder again, disappearing from sight.

She heard a faint grumble behind her as Horace crossed his arms. Mistle stood and placed her hands on her hips, staring hard at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just there’s been a lot of new faces lately. Starting to miss when it was just us.”

“You’d rather go back to the days of getting shaken down by the bigger _hanses_? Remember how much tribute we had to pay the Silver Crows before they got taken over by the Red Razors? If I hadn’t struck the deal that made that happen, we’d still be poorer than the folks up there.”

“Mistle, you know I’m loyal to you.” He leaned in closer. “But are they? Can we trust any one of these people not to sell us out? One of them wasn’t even using her real name.”

“There’s a reason for that, one I’m not about to share with you because it doesn’t ploughing matter. I trust them, even this one.”

“Much appreciated,” said Keira. “Though your people have every right to be wary. I only trust the lot of you because Ciri does.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her eyes bored deeper into Horace. “We’re in this mess because instead of playing it smart and waiting for us to get back, you took it upon yourself to raid a settlement that wasn’t even that big of a prize. It’s a ploughing miracle you weren’t slaughtered on the spot!”

He frowned, not meeting her gaze. “Not a miracle,” he said quietly. “It was something else.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He means that just when Lambert and I had them on the ropes, the Rats abruptly disappeared as though they had never been there,” said Keira, not looking at them. “I’m rather curious as to how that happened, since there wasn’t any portal involved.”

Mistle crossed her arms and turned back to him. “Well?”

“I don’t have a damn clue what happened,” he told them, shaking his head. “I heard two hands clap and time just… froze. Everybody was standing still, except for me and a man who walked up to me. He was wearing a yellow tunic with blue tights, two satchels thrown over opposite shoulders. The way he looked at me… I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Her eyes grew wide, and Mistle understood.

“Did he give you a name?” asked Keira.

“Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Never heard of him.”

He focused on Mistle, who stood there dumbstruck. “He said _you_ have. Said you made a deal with him in which our fates were his to decide.”

“He told you that, did he?” They stared at each other for several moments. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way to keep you safe.”

“From what, Mistle? Who exactly is he?”

She frowned. “Someone I owe everything to. I fear you shan’t believe me if I tell you now. We must have Falka present, she can vouch for what I say.”

“Ciri,” said Faloanthír, drawing closer. “Not Falka. Funny how all this started happening when she showed up.”

“Maybe you could’ve avoided it if you hadn’t robbed her in her sleep.”

“And maybe you could have told us before making a deal with the devil!”

Mistle smiled darkly and shook her head. “That deal was made long before I even met any of you. Or have you never wondered how I found you?”

“This is all very fascinating,” said Keira from across the room. “But I need one of you to collect the salve from upstairs. He’s about to go unconscious again.”

Glaring hard at Mistle as he left, Horace ascended the ladder, out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this update, this story has passed 100,000 words, making this the first time I've achieved that in ten years. Thank you to everyone who's stayed with me so far, and I look forward to keeping this thing going. We're only halfway there.


	20. Brood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains some intense horror imagery. Like many things in the world of The Witcher, it is intended to be grotesque. If you are triggered by body horror, specifically mutilation, or if you don’t find that sort of thing palatable, proceed with caution.

“Gotta say: I didn’t expect that back there.”

Ciri smirked and spurred the reins, signaling Kelpie to trot faster. “I’m full of surprises.”

They were out on the trail by this point, without another soul in sight. The snowcapped canopy of the forest surrounding them broke often enough for them to see the clouds blocking out the sun, encapsulating them in a world where time seemed not to pass, save for the fact that they progressed further down the road.

“You were right, you know. The only times I ever really saw you were at Kaer Morhen. First when you were young, then when you came to us to help you fight the Hunt. In my head you’re still that little brat who couldn’t balance for shit.”

“Hey! I can balance fine now, just as I could back then.”

“Is that why Geralt had to catch you that one time?”

She laughed, and they continued on. “I’ve grown, Lambert. I’ve seen great and horrible things on the road. More of the latter, actually.”

“Well, the world is a shitty place. Especially on the road.”

“You could say it’s changed me, for better and worse. Enough that I won’t let a greedy old miser shortchange us like he planned.”

“The look on his face… priceless.”

“It’s true what I said about the Rats,” she continued. “We didn’t do what we did for spoils. We did it because we were children who had been treated horribly by the world, so we decided to respond in kind. Looking back, it could never have ended well.”

“Yeah. When we asked around, people kept telling us the original gang got massacred.”

“They did.” Her face grew still, and the eyes settled on the back of Kelpie’s head. “Right in front of me.”

He glanced at her with a surprising amount of sympathy. “That had to suck.”

“You’ve no idea. I got there too late. Nothing I could do but watch.”

“Guessing that’s why you’re so keen on stopping me from doing it.”

Ciri nodded.

“Well, shit. Never could say no to you. None of us could.”

She smiled. “I am still a brat at heart.”

He laughed.

“I’d really rather not dwell on this, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

They rode in silence for half a mile or so, until the stench of the village was a distant memory, and was replaced by more natural scents. The swamp was still a few hours away, but it was a good day for riding. The snow was fresh and sturdy, and the clouds above had not yet burst into tears. Ciri occasionally patted her mare’s head, brushing snowflakes out of her mane.

“That woman we followed,” he said after a while. “Who is she, really?”

“You mean Syanna? She’s my cousin, actually.”

“Your _what_?”

“Anna Henrietta, the Duchess of Toussaint, is her sister, and both of them are cousins of Emhyr var Emreis. That makes us second cousins.”

He took a moment to process that. “How’d you even meet?”

“We’ve just come here from Toussaint. I spent a week there with Geralt and Yennefer. Met her the morning after a ball.”

“How are the happy couple, anyway?”

“Enjoying retirement, but not very well. They practically jumped at the chance to go on an another adventure for my sake.”

“That sounds like them, alright.”

“If you promise to be nice, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the gang. They’re not bad people; they just got dealt a shitty hand in life. Like me.”

“I swear my swords will stay in their scabbards,” he replied. “But you of all people should know that I’m never nice.”

Ciri laughed. “I suppose that’ll have to do.”

* * *

“What’s this even supposed to do?” Sheana asked as she spread the thick, paste-like substance across Stephanos’ wound. She had kneeled down by where he lay, barely conscious and not at all lucid. Keira stood over her, observing.

“At this point, all it _can_ do is take the edge off.”

“You mean he’ll die?”

“It’s hard to say. Werewolves are hardy creatures by nature. Even silver has trouble finishing them permanently unless they happen to be missing a head.”

Mistle paced behind them, glancing over occasionally. “Why are they weak to silver, anyway? Is there something special about it?”

“Nearly all post-Conjunction creatures have some sort of vulnerability to silver. It’s why witchers carry a second sword made of the stuff. As to why, there are legends which claim the gods imbued it with the power to fight evil, but I say that’s rubbish. A bunch of simpletons ascribing a supernatural explanation to a more material phenomenon.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because for one thing, not all monsters are evil,” said Syanna, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “Most are only after food, and those intelligent enough to think for themselves have their own set of values. Your friend, for instance.”

“Aye, but he’s half human,” said Horace. “Didn’t get cursed until after he’d grown up as a man.”

“And you think humans are the only ones who can choose between good and evil? I’ve known creatures far more frightening than anything that lurks in the woods; even shared a bed with one. They’re not anything like you imagine.”

That earned her stares from the entire room. She only shrugged in response. Keira broke the silence.

“Was it a succubus?”

“What?”

“The one you shared a bed with. Was it a succubus?”

“No. A higher vampire.” The room grew silent, and she continued. “Do you want to know something interesting? Out of the two of us, I was the more monstrous one.”

Horace regarded her skeptically. “Did he suck your blood?”

“Only as foreplay.” She smirked as he recoiled from that. “I wasn’t shacking up with an Ekimmara or a Katakan. Higher vampires are far smarter than humans, and they experience emotions more strongly.” She chuckled. “He was more capable of love than I’ll ever be.”

“What happened to him?” asked Sheana.

“He’s dead. A witcher killed him.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I’ve told Mistle the rest; she can fill you in later. I’ve made my point.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Keira. “The question of why certain creatures are vulnerable to silver isn’t an exact science, and I’m afraid Lambert knows more about it than I do. We do know that most post-Conjunction creatures carry unique strains of bacteria in their blood that react negatively to silver, and the element has a strong association with the moon in alchemy. It’s also the most conductive pure metal in existence, a fact which means it interferes with magical energy on a level exceeded only by dimeritium.”

Sheana stared at her, lost. “Huh?”

“How shall I put this more simply?” Keira clutched her forehead. “Have you ever heard of a lightning rod? They’re put on top of buildings in large cities.”

“Of course,” she said, defensively. “They have them in Nilfgaard. I’ve been there, you know.”

“Congratulations. I assume from your tone that you also know how they work?”

She nodded. “They draw the lightning bolt’s attention and carry the energy down to the ground, which prevents the building from catching fire.”

“Very good.”

“I know how it works,” she said, continuing to apply the salve. “I just don’t see how it has anything to do with what you said.”

“The process you just described is called conduction. A lightning rod interrupts the natural flow of energy and causes it to go somewhere else. Silver and dimeritium work in much the same way, and magic is a form of energy that first showed up with the Conjunction of the Spheres, along with all the creatures that carry residual magic energy to this day. It’s why a witcher’s medallion vibrates whenever such creatures are  nearby.”

She nodded, finally understanding. “So because his transformation uses magic, silver interferes with that?”

“Indeed. More specifically, a werewolf’s transformation is a form of polymorphy, an exceedingly rare talent that only one living human mage has mastered. Add into that the fact that your friend has an additional curse placed on top of his lycanthropy, and you can see why silver would cause everything to short circuit.”

“But you’ve never seen anything like this before?” asked Mistle.

“I’ve never treated a werewolf before. We can only hope Ciri and Lambert find the one who made him this way. In the meantime, we should wait for the salve to dry before we reapply his bandages.”

She nodded. “Sheana, go wash up. Horace, Faloanthír, go use that fire to cook something. The rest of you, take turns watching Stephanos.” She looked at his unconscious body and frowned. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

* * *

They reached the Pereplut Swamp in the late afternoon, an hour before dusk. The sun stayed hidden behind the clouds, and the sky disappeared entirely as the solid earth gave way to wet, sloshing mud. Ciri ducked beneath a low-hanging vine, which nearly caught on her sword. Lambert inhaled deeply through his nostrils.

“Well that’s a swamp if I’ve ever smelled one.”

Ciri groaned, for reasons that were a mystery to him.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” he said. “If I wanted to hide from the world, I can’t imagine many places better than this.”

“That’s exactly what I did years ago,” Ciri revealed, gesturing to her scar. “Right after I got this. A man named Vysogota of Corvo lived here as a hermit. He nursed me back to health after I fled from… you haven’t heard that story.”

“I haven’t. I always figured you got that scar from the Wild Hunt.”

Shaking her head, she steered Kelpie around a large, fallen tree. “I didn’t. Stefan Skellen gave it to me. He’d hired a bounty hunter to kill me, but this bounty hunter had taken me captive instead and tried to sell me back for a greater price. That’s when I ran. He threw something sharp and cut my cheek open.”

Ciri frowned. “That was the first time I used my powers. I jumped forward in time, four days into the future. Had a hell of a time arguing over what day it was when I finally came to.”

“This Vysogota fellow still around?”

“No. He was old, and he died shortly after I left. Geralt and Yennefer helped me bury him.”

“Shame. Could’ve used someone who knows the area.”

She smiled. “That’s what you have me for. I spent at least two months here. I know my way around.”

“Lead on, then.”

* * *

“Found tracks,” Lambert said an hour or so later.

They had wandered about the swamp searching for either the missing villagers or the witch, and had come up with neither. At one point Ciri had considered stopping by Vysogota’s old hut, but decided she didn’t need any more bad memories.

“I don’t see them,” she said after dismounting. “Are they fresh?”

“They’re a few days old,” he answered, kneeling down and pressing his fingers against the mud. “But they’re human. One trail leads off towards that fallen tree, the other towards that cave.”

“I can see the second one.” She leaned over and squinted, resting her hand just above her eyes. “Should we split up?”

Lambert stood and crossed his arms. “Not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Oh please. Witchers are trained to work independently anyway.” At his skeptical glare, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “If I encounter something I can’t handle myself, I shall scream very loudly and come find you.”

“If it’s something _you_ can’t handle then we’re both in trouble.”

“Then there’s  nothing to worry about. I’ll check out the end of this trail, you take the other one. Meet back in thirty minutes?”

He nodded. “Fine. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Following the tracks was easier now that Lambert had pointed them out. She instructed Kelpie to stay where she was, and set off in the direction of the cave.

It was all a bit surreal, coming back here. When she stayed in the swamp all those years ago, she wasn’t herself, not truly. She wasn’t Falka or Ciri, but rather both; two versions of herself at once, in the same way that a cat in a closed box could be both alive and dead, until it was opened and it became one or the other. Avallac’h had used that metaphor to explain some scientific concept to her so she could better comprehend the secrets behind one of the worlds they’d passed through, and it was only now that she understood.

When she left, she became the person she was today. Or so she had told herself before discovering that Falka wasn’t as far in the past as she believed.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword as she rounded the corner, entering the cavern. She heard nothing, but that did not shake the sense that she wasn’t alone.

“I wouldn’t recommend going any further, if you value your breakfast. There are some things you can’t unsee.”

The sword was already out as she whirled around to see Gaunter O’Dimm standing in front of her, as though he had always been there. She groaned.

“Oh gods, not _you_.”

“Forgotten our deal already? You still owe Mistle a second wish. Coming down to the wire on that one.”

Ciri shook her head. “I’ve got time.”

“We all have time. But you should be careful lest time have you instead.”

“What does that even mean?”

He only smiled. The sword returned to its sheath.

“I had an interesting nightmare recently,” she said, glaring at him. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

Both of his eyebrows arched up and he glanced at her inquisitively. “Why would you think that?”

“It bore quite a few similarities to the talk we had at the ball.”

“If that’s true, then why would I need to repeat myself?”

She chuckled, then leaned against the wall. “Good point.”

“Besides, you heard the vampire. Geralt’s inexperience with non-mutated constitutions poisoned you, and your subconscious did the rest. Sometimes it really is just a dream.”

Frowning, Ciri kicked a pebble across the cave. “Speaking of which, it seems awfully convenient that Regis happened to show up when he did.”

“Believe it or not, there are coincidences that happen without my involvement.” He moved in a semicircle around her, and joined her against the wall. “But you’re right of course. Something curious did happen when you experienced that nightmare. For its duration, I lost my awareness of you.”

It was getting difficult to maintain the level of anger she had felt towards him, considering that it didn’t bother him in the slightest. She sighed and relaxed, releasing the tension in her muscles. He couldn’t hurt her worse than he already had.

“How is that possible?”

He glanced over to her, a grave expression on his face. “There’s something you need to understand, Ciri. About Destiny. I have control over it, but so do others. This prevents any one of us from reshaping all existence according to our own design.”

“Others? You mean there are more like you?”

“Like me? Not in the way they go about it, but similar, yes. One of them has a deep connection to you, and was recently awoken. But we’re not enemies.”

“Then what are you?”

“I guess you could say we’re working towards a similar goal. Don’t let her bluster fool you. She’s really quite interesting once you get to know her.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“At any rate, if you were hidden from my sight, even briefly, then that means something dangerous is at work here. Someone else has taken an interest in you, someone who doesn’t share my sense of good sportsmanship. All I can advise you is to be on your guard.”

Ciri huffed. “As if I wasn’t already. Is that why you have people enter into contracts? So no one else can interfere?”

“Let’s just say the one limit to my power is that I can’t infringe upon the territory of others unless it involves a contract. It’s a lovely little loophole that’s allowed me to thrive all these years.”

“I’m sure. Is that all you came here to say?”

“It is. I have some other matters to tend to, but I’ll be in touch.” He stepped away, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I was being serious before. You shouldn’t go any further. This cave won’t take you anywhere you like.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “But it won’t stop me. I haven’t liked anything that’s happened since we last spoke.”

“Very well, then. I’m only looking out for you. Goodbye for now.”

He walked out of the cave, and Ciri chuckled darkly to herself before pressing on.

* * *

The further Ciri progressed into the cave, the drier it got. Her hands wrapped around the sword again as she heard skittering, which echoed from further down in the cave. Crouching, she moved as silently as she could, her eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. Spears of light occasionally penetrated the ceiling, but before long it was almost pitch black.

“Should have let Lambert take this one.”

Ciri had always been torn between being grateful that she did not have to undergo the same mutations as the rest of the witchers, and envious of the abilities that said mutations afforded them. What did a few scars matter when she had ended up covered in them regardless? Not to mention it would have saved her a lifetime of being lusted after for the children that prophecy said she was supposed to bear.

Seeing Lambert again made her pine for the days when the worst thing that ever happened to her was the loss of her kingdom. Compared to everything that happened later, it was a relatively idyllic time in her life, where just like the ballads of old, the fallen princess was hidden away from the world, to grow and mature in secret, so that she may one day emerge more beautiful and powerful than ever. If things had gone differently on Thanedd, she might have gotten that fairy tale ending. But it was not to be.

The space around her began to grow brighter, glowing a pale shade of green. Ciri looked down and noticed that, without thinking about it, she had started to emit green flames that lit up the rest of the cavern.

The first thing that caught her attention was an enormous, decaying spider web that covered the wall to her right. There was another one further down the cavern, and in the light she could see various insectoid droppings. That meant she was near a lair, or at least a feeding ground.

“So in the end, it was only kikimores.”

That answered what had happened to the villagers at the very least. Kikimores loved swamps and caverns, and would often drag unsuspecting victims back to their nests. It could also be arachasae or arachnomorphs, but both preferred drier climates. She moved further down the cave, keeping her ears open for the skittering.

When she rounded the next corner, Ciri’s face turned pale, and she fell to her knees, retching at what she saw.

Hanging  from the wall was a mutilated human body, female, about twenty years old. Her abdomen had been torn completely open, and where there should have been organs was instead an empty, vacuous space. The skin around her belly was stretched abnormally far, and her rib cage had been bent outward, as if something had burst from inside her. Her arms and legs were outstretched, pinned to the wall by a spider web, and her face was frozen in a death mask of unspeakable agony.

Ciri scrabbled backwards, away from the horrifying sight, unable to look away in spite of her disgust. There was warm breath against her ear, and she heard a voice whisper: “ _Don’t worry, I’ve done this hundreds of times._ ”

Thinking became nearly impossible as the panic set in and she felt cold steel clamp down against her ankles and wrists, and saw her tormentors standing over her, bringing that infernal device closer and gloating the whole time. She was no longer in the cave, but strapped to a chair in the most evil place she’d ever been, where she had gone to fulfill her destiny. Only this time, there was no escape.

She felt something enter her, and her heart skipped a beat.

Then she felt something cutting into her, tearing through her belly like a hot knife through soft butter. She looked down and saw herself vivisected, and watched as Vilgefortz buried his hands inside of her while Leo Bonhart looked on, sneering and looking as though nothing had ever satisfied him as much as this moment.

The pain became white hot as a hand reached around in her guts, pulling her apart. Ciri bucked and convulsed, yelling and thrashing about in a blind frenzy. A spell immobilized her, and he fished around inside her before producing another sharp implement, then cut into her placenta, extracting the blood.

“ _There, you see? Nothing to it.”_

Unable to bear it any longer, Ciri did the one thing left to her.

She screamed.

* * *

The shrill, piercing wail reached Lambert’s ears, and he immediately started running towards the cave.

“Didn’t think she was serious,” he muttered, dashing as quickly as he could through the swamp.

Passing the horses, he followed the second trail into the mouth of the cavern, his eyes adjusting instantly to the darkness. He followed Ciri’s continued screams, which nearly ruptured his eardrums with the way they echoed through the cave. His sword was out when he rounded the corner and saw her there, surrounded by a glowing green aura, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“Ciri, calm down!”

The screaming ceased, and her head whipped towards him. Her pupils had disappeared, replaced with the same glowing energy that surrounded the rest of her form. She quickly stood, reached for her sword, and then she disappeared.

Lambert’s instincts saved him as he ducked under a horizontal swing from behind him, turning around and parrying the next swipe. Ciri continued to swing at him, blindly but with great precision. He formed the Quen sign to block the next strike, and the arcane shield nearly shattered upon impact.

“What the hell, Ciri? It’s me, Lambert. Stop trying to kill me!”

If she heard him at all, his words did not appear to have an impact. Her next attack broke through the barrier, and he blocked it with his sword. Ciri vanished again, and he turned around reflexively as he sensed the next attack coming, batting it to the side. Ciri used the momentum to keep going, and whirled around again to strike with even greater force.

The good news was this meant that some of Ciri was still there. That was a move Geralt taught her; to use the brute force of her opponent to increase the power of her own strikes. Each blow echoed throughout the cavern like a thunderclap as the green magic energy that encased her blade came into contact with his sword. If he’d been wielding an inferior blade, she would have cut him to ribbons by now.

He rolled away from her next strike, back towards the direction from which he’d entered the cavern. Ciri pursued him, and he fended her off as best he could. If he’d been fighting anybody else, he would have ended it already, but with Ciri he could do nothing but hold back.

Howling like a woman possessed, she hammered at his defenses from impossible angles, zipping around him in green flashes and repeatedly teleporting out of sight. It was only his reflexes and training that saved him; anyone without those would already be dead.

Lambert kept his footing, and parried the next few strikes as she attacked with impossible speed. All things considered, he counted himself fortunate that this was the extent of her freak-out. At least it wasn’t a repeat of what happened at Kaer Morhen.

“Fine then! If you won’t calm down, I’ll have to make you!”

Ciri shrieked as she swung in a hard diagonal motion, which he countered by stepping backwards and, rather than attempt to block the sword, he hit the back of it with his own blade and carried it further along its trajectory, pinning it to the ground. He blasted her back with the Aard sign, then surged forward and headbutted her, smashing her nose and causing her to stagger and drop the sword.

Swaying there for a moment, Ciri’s eyes blinked and her pupils returned. “Lambert?”

His fist was already heading towards her face, and struck the side of her jaw, sending her to the ground unconscious.

“Sorry about this,” he said, retrieving some rope and beginning to bind her hands. “But you’ll thank me later.”

* * *

Ciri tasted copper in her mouth when she awoke, and slowly became aware that she was tasting her blood. The chill of the cavern floor accelerated the waking process, and she blinked rapidly as she tried to sit up, only to fall when she was unable to maneuver her hand into position to push against the ground. She then became aware that her hands were bound behind her back.

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to calm down. She remembered fighting someone, but their identity remained shrouded. It wasn’t Bonhart or Vilgefortz, though she had seen both of them standing over her as clearly as she had when it actually happened. That was the last thing she remembered before…

“Lambert?”

“So you’re awake.”

The Witcher stood over her, and she stared at him, perplexed. “Why have you tied me up?”

“So you don’t try and cut my head off again.” He was leaning against a wall, and after glancing around quickly Ciri realized that he had taken her further back in the cave, closer to where she had entered. At least it meant that she didn’t have to look at that corpse again. “I don’t know what that was, but next time try and control yourself, alright?”

“Sorry,” she said, feeling a deep sense of shame wash over her. “I saw something that brought me back to a place I’d hoped never to think about again.”

“You mean the body? Yeah, that was pretty nasty. Still don’t get how that translates to you swinging a sword at my face.”

Ciri shook her head. “Unlike you, I didn’t have all my emotions stripped from me to make me a more effective monster slayer. I panicked and… things ceased to be real for a time. I didn’t know it was you I was fighting. Not until you knocked me in the head.”

“Well don’t do it again, okay?”

“Agreed. Can you untie me now?”

Lambert nodded, and quickly undid her bindings. She stood, stretched out the kinks in her joints, and he handed her sword back to her. She patted down her belly to reassure herself that everything was still in place. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply and jumped up and down a couple of times to vent some of the nervous energy.

“So now what?”

He shrugged. “Now we examine the body. Don’t make faces.”

She glared at him regardless. “Sure that’s a good idea? I might attack you again.”

“Very funny. Come on, we raised you to be tougher than this.”

Ciri frowned, and anger swelled inside her. “It’s not the first dead body I’ve seen. Like I said, it reminded me of a time in my life when… nevermind. You don’t care.”

“I’m not Geralt,” he said. “I’m not gonna be a shoulder for you to cry on. It was your idea to go after this contract, so either see it through or sit this one out.”

“Fine then.” She marched ahead of him. “I don’t need anybody to feel sorry for me anyway.”

“Now we’re speaking the same language.”

She inhaled deeply and mentally prepared herself for the sight, a luxury she’d not had when she stumbled upon it earlier. She reminded herself that she was safe, relatively speaking, and that the horrors that threatened her in the past had not resolved the way they did in that vision, no matter how real it felt. Even so, she still felt sick upon seeing the woman’s body hanging open, and the notion that it could have been her refused to leave her head.

Lambert approached it without issue, while she hung back about ten feet.

“She’s only been dead a day or two,” he said, his voice cold and clinical. “Rigor mortis froze her face like that, and her skin hasn’t decayed very much.” Sticking a gloved hand into her abdominal cavity, he ran a finger along the inside. “Organs are missing, but I didn’t find them anywhere, meaning they were probably eaten. And…”

He paused, retrieving something from inside the body. “Aw, shit.”

“What?”

Holding something up for her to see, he beckoned her closer. She did so with great trepidation, fighting down bile the whole way. It was strange; she’d been able to examine a man torn apart by a werewolf without the slightest hint of nausea, but something about this woman’s passing refused to let her stomach sit well. He handed her something small and thin, like a wafer that fit between two fingers.

“What is it?”

“An eggshell,” he replied. “There’s more inside her, and on the floor.”

She dropped it immediately, and furiously wiped her gloves off on her tunic. “So you’re saying…?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, delivering the information in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “Something forcibly impregnated her, using her body as an incubator before the eggs hatched and the young ate their way out.” He put a finger to his chin. “What’s really strange is that the villagers only went missing over a five day period. If the eggs hatched that quickly, then she might have still been alive when…”

Ciri leaned over and vomited on the floor.

“Lightweight.”

“Shut up!” She stood and wiped the bile away from her mouth. “Let’s just say I sympathize with her.”

“What, did something like that happen to you?”

She laughed darkly. “Actually, yes. Or rather, it was about to when I was rescued. I was reminded of it when I saw her, and started to relive the memory. That’s why I screamed.”

“Well shit then. Sorry for being a prick.”

“Don’t be. I expect that from you by now. It’s not like you could have known.”

“You tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen. Like I said, sorry.”

“Apology accepted. What do you think did this?”

“My money was on kikimores initially, but they lay their eggs in the ground,” he said. “Same with endregas and arachasae.”

“Arachnomorphs, then?”

“I don’t think so. They breed like normal spiders. As far as I know there are no post-Conjunction creatures that use human incubators. But I’ve never been this far south before.”

Ciri clutched the side of her head. “I told you this swamp was full of horrors.”

“You know, it’s okay if you want to sit this one out. It’s obviously getting to you.”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped, whipping her head around to glare at him. She began to walk further into the cavern. “Let’s go.”

Lambert sighed, then followed after her.


	21. Bonding

“I don’t suppose,” said Keira, still seated across from where Stephanos lay, holding her hands up as she maintained the spell, “that one of you could fetch me some water? I haven’t had anything to drink in more than five hours.”

“Got ale,” said Horace, shrugging. “Or spirit.”

“Alcohol will only make me more thirsty, and throw off my concentration. Water, if you please.”

He glanced to Mistle, who nodded. “You heard her.”

“I’ll get it,” said Syanna. “The lot of you can’t be seen around the village, remember?”

“True, but we needn’t get it from the village. There’s a stream a little ways off in the woods. Take Sheana with you.”

The two of them glanced at each other. “Why?” they asked in unison.

“Because she knows where it is. Don’t want you getting lost again.”

“I didn’t get lost,” she replied. “I knew I was being followed, and I didn’t want to lead them back here. It was your girlfriend who made that decision.”

Keira blinked. “Girlfriend? You mean Ciri? Well, that explains it.”

“Even so, I don’t want anybody getting caught alone. We go out in pairs from now on.”

“Why? I can handle myself, and I stand less chance of being noticed if I don’t have to drag this one along. It can’t be that hard to find a fucking creek.”

“Not up for discussion. Take her with you.”

Crossing the distance between them in three long strides, Syanna stopped just inches in front of Mistle’s face. “Treat your lackeys however you like. But I’m working _with_ you, not for you. You don’t get to order me around.”

Mistle stood her ground, glaring. Syanna matched her, and they stared each other down for a good minute.

“If you value the life of your ‘lackey’ as she put it, I would recommend not allowing the person keeping him stable to collapse from dehydration,” Keira said from behind them. “Sort out the pecking order later, when you have the luxury of doing so. For now, water.”

Rolling her eyes, Syanna climbed up the ladder, and Sheana followed silently after. When they stepped out the door, she finally spoke.

“We’re not her lackeys, you know.”

“What?”

“You called us lackeys. That’s not what we are. She’s just the leader.”

Syanna crossed her arms. “If that’s what you tell yourself. I’ve seen the way she orders you around.”

They moved behind the hut, in the direction of the stream. Sheana carried the bucket, which swayed by her side as she walked. “Mistle can be harsh, true, but she has a reason for everything she says and does. She has more experience than the lot of us.”

“Not more than me. I’ve been a bandit since I was banished at the tender age of eleven. I was leading my own _hanse_ of more than fifty men until recently.”

“So why slum it with us?”

Syanna shrugged. “They all died. And I made a deal that I probably shouldn’t have. But that doesn’t mean I’ll allow myself to be ordered around like a common grunt.”

“That’s fair enough, I guess.” She hopped over a fallen tree, while the older woman moved around it. “Still, you heard what she told you. She doesn’t want any of us to get caught on our own. We’re supposed to watch out for each other.”

“And she chose you for that? You couldn’t protect your own virginity from a priest.”

The bucket swung hard at her head, and Syanna ducked swiftly out of the way. “See what I mean? You weren’t sent with me as protection.”

“Then what’s your theory?”

“In my experience, and I’ve had plenty, people assert their authority the hardest when it’s just been challenged. I only caught bits of it, but it seems some of the other members aren’t happy with certain decisions she made. And since your nose is planted firmly up her arse, she wants to build a defense against a possible mutiny by getting us chummy with each other.”

“So she sent us out here to… bond?”

“By my estimate, yes. I’ve used the same tactic several times.”

At this point they were nearing the stream, navigating carefully through the underbrush. Sheana filled the bucket, while she kept watch. Once that was complete they began heading back, the bucket no longer swaying.

“Do you not like her?”

“Hm?”

“Mistle. Do you not like her?”

“On the contrary. I like her quite a bit. That doesn’t mean I appreciate being treated this way.”

Sheana frowned. “I actually would like to get to know you a little better, if you’re going to be joining us and everything.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Fine then, I’ll start: my family was nobility, but my father committed an enormous breach of etiquette at a Nilfgaardian banquet, got us blacklisted, and hung himself from the tree in our front yard after drinking failed to wash the shame away. My mother went insane and got put away, the estate became worthless, and I decided to collect what I was owed one Nilfgaardian at a time. Mistle found me a short while later, and I’ve been with the gang ever since.”

Scoffing, she pressed forward. “Everybody has a sob story that explains why they do this. Don’t think it makes you special.”

“I don’t. Nor do I expect you to sympathize. But I don’t like fighting alongside people I barely know.”

Syanna stopped walking, and sent a sideways glance her way. An uncomfortable silence settled over them, the sort that stifled any attempt to break it like smothering a baby in its crib. Finally she spoke.

“Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”

“Not really.”

“Settle in, then. You’re in for a long story.”

* * *

They exited the cave, following tracks that only Lambert was able to see. It was warmer here, and a thin mist had settled in, hovering just above the ground. It wasn’t nearly enough to cause them to lose sight of each other, but Ciri kept a wary eye just in case.

Sniffing the air, Lambert abruptly changed direction, and she followed. The only things she smelled were normal for a swamp: thick, fetid air and wet muck. Something had caught his attention, something that stood out from the usual stench.

“Geralt ever take you on one of these contracts?”

She nodded. “After we defeated the Wild Hunt, he finished my training and set me on the Path. Even had a new silver sword made for me. I’ve done a few contracts of my own, but it’s not the easiest life. I find most folk don’t take me seriously when I tell them I’m a witcher.”

“Be thankful they don’t,” he said. “If they took you seriously you’d get to see what we feel like, being spit at in the street and called a freak, right up until those ungrateful whoresons get more afraid of the monsters than they are of us.”

“You think I’ve never faced that? Never been called a freak? If you think superstitious villagers and witch hunters are bad, try spending five minutes with one of the Aen Elle. To them I’m a degenerate half breed fit for naught but being used in whatever manner they see fit. Like I’m not even a person.”

Holding onto a low hanging tree branch as he ducked under it, Lambert stood back up and turned around to face her, resting his arms on top of the same branch. “This isn’t a competition. I’m not about to play a game of ‘my life is sadder than yours.’ Just be thankful you have people who _do_ see you as more than what others say you are.”

“You’re right.” She looked down, pressing the heel of her palm into her forehead, shaking it before meeting his eyes again. “Is that who Keira is for you? I must say I didn’t expect the two of you to end up together.”

“Yeah.” Letting go of the branch, he turned around and stared off into the distance. “Neither did I.”

“What with all those years of chastising Geralt for getting involved with sorceresses?”

He shook his head. “It’s different with Keira. Merigold’s way too high and mighty, and Yennefer’s a vindictive, manipulative—”

“Watch what you say about her! She was a mother to me after I lost mine, and out of everybody who was looking for me, she sacrificed the most, confronted more of her fears than any of you combined. Up to and including serving my father after everything Nilfgaard did to her.”

“Fine. Sorry.” He turned to face her again, arching an eyebrow. “Not gonna defend Triss?”

“Only if you think sticking to her principles the way she does needs defending.”

“Point is, Keira stays away from bullshit, just like me. And she saved my life during the battle at Kaer Morhen. I owe her for that.”

“Well you’re awfully cute together. When you’re not trying to murder my friends, that is.”

They moved further on, deeper into the swamp. Lambert would crouch occasionally and reorient himself, then change direction and follow a new trail. Ciri kept an eye on their surroundings, trying to remember her way through here. For most of her time in Vysogota’s care, she hadn’t even left the hut. But she knew enough not to get lost.

“What about you?” he asked. “You find anyone worth settling down with yet?”

“Yes, actually. Her name’s Mistle. She’s the leader of the Rats; the only surviving member of the original gang aside from me.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “I see Geralt’s managed to pass on his shitty taste in women.”

“You’ve not even met her,” she replied, giggling.

“Right, who am I to judge?” He moved a curtain of vines out of the way, allowing her to duck through them. “I’m sure she’s a lovely highway robber.”

“She is. Mistle was there for me during a time when I thought everything was lost. It’s thanks to her and that gang that I didn’t end up in the Empire’s clutches even after I’d resigned myself to that fate. She helped me discover an entirely new side of myself.”

“You mean the one that likes girls?”

Ciri crossed her arms and cocked her hip, sending an arched eyebrow his way. “You’re not going to give me a lecture on propriety, are you?”

“Why would I? I’m more worried about you dating an outlaw.”

“Worried she’ll spoil my virtue? Too bad, because it already happened.”

He turned around. “Look, Ciri. I know I can come across as a bit of a…”

“Prick?”

“Right. But you know I care about you, right?”

“So do Geralt and Yennefer. And I already had this conversation with them. I don’t need anybody’s approval to be with the woman I love. Outlaw or not.”

“Fine.” He shrugged. “I can respect that. I’m just worried you might have gotten in over your head.”

She laughed. “You and everybody else. Let’s keep searching, shall we?”

“Sure.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Ciri clutched the side of her head and squinted her eyes shut. Her teeth were gritted and she groaned while shaking her head. Lambert stopped and looked at her curiously. She began to inhale deeply, releasing each breath through her  mouth, and after a minute or so it passed and she began acting normal again. He frowned.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said a little too quickly. “Let’s press on.”

“Trail isn’t going anywhere. I told you, it’s okay if you want to head back. I can handle this just fine, but you’re clearly having trouble keeping your head together.”

“And I told _you_ , it’s nothing. I can keep going.”

Lambert sighed and sat down on a nearby tree that had collapsed so long ago that vegetation had grown over and around it, slowly reclaiming it as it decomposed. He motioned for her to follow, which she did after much petulant stomping.

“Let me tell you a little secret, Ciri. Growing up they tell you stories about how witchers don’t have emotions—how the Trial of the Grasses stripped us of our humanity, our ability to feel. Well it’s not true.” He chuckled. “As much time as you’ve spent around Geralt, you probably already knew that.”

Ciri nodded, but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“There was another witcher I knew. Aiden was his name, from the Cat School. Most of them were cutthroats, no better than common bandits or hired assassins, but not him. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Actually, as long as I’m telling you all my secrets, he was more than a friend to me.”

“Like a brother, you mean?”

He sent a sidelong glance her way.

“Ah. I wondered why you took the news of my relationship in stride.”

“Anyway, he got killed by a man named Jad Karadin and his band of mercenaries. Geralt helped me hunt them all down and end most of them, while he was searching for you, actually. You know what I felt the most that whole time?”

“Anger?”

“Close. But more than that it was grief. And guilt. Told myself I couldn’t have been with him when it happened, had other business, but that didn’t change how I felt like I’d let him down. People talk all the time about how witchers are heartless monsters, but if that were true mine wouldn’t have been broken.”

She rested a hand on his knee. “I’m so sorry that happened. I know a thing or two about losing people you love.”

“So you’ve said. Thanks for caring.”

“What happened to Jad Karadin?”

“Geralt and I found him in Novigrad. Turns out he was a witcher too. He’d retired though, turned into a ‘legitimate businessman.’ According to his other pals it was all a front for human trafficking. Motherfucker actually tried to guilt us by parading his wife and kids in front of us.”

Ciri blinked. “He had children? How?”

“Adopted, or so he said. It didn’t save him.”

Nodding, she stared at the wet ground of the swamp for several moments. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I want you to understand that even though I don’t feel emotions as strongly as other people, even though I don’t get scared or cry or piss my pants when I see a monster, I have some experience with  what you’re going through. Might even be able to help.”

“Thought you weren’t planning to be a shoulder for me to cry on.”

“That hasn’t changed. But I’m here to listen if you want to talk about it. I told you my story; it’s okay to tell me yours.”

Sighing deeply, Ciri closed her eyes. “Have you heard of the sorcerer Vilgefortz of Roggeveen?”

“Yeah. Keira told me all about him once. Guy tried to lead a coup on the isle of Thanedd right as the Second Northern War was breaking out. Then he went into hiding, and Keira helped blow up his castle after he died.”

“Geralt was the one who killed him. The coup he attempted resulted in me fleeing into the Tor Lara portal, where I was flung all the way to the Korvath Desert. After wandering for a few days, I was captured by trappers and led to an inn, where one of the Rats had been taken prisoner as well. The others broke in and freed him, and I rode off with them.”

She frowned. “As we fled, a man attempted to pull me from my horse. I stabbed him in the heart. It was the first time I killed someone.”

“First time’s always the hardest.”

“I got used to it quickly. Even grew to like it.”

He nodded with a stern understanding.

“But I needn’t bore you with the minute details. Eventually, after I’d escaped from Eredin and traversed space and time, I ended up at Stygga Castle, where Vilgefortz was hiding. I knew he was holding Yennefer there. I knew that Geralt and a few others were on their way. I’d made up my mind to play out my destiny. So I walked right in there and surrendered.”

“That took guts.”

“It nearly did so literally. Vilgefortz strapped me to a chair and told me he planned to impregnate me using some sort of device, so he could extract my placental blood and use it to ascend to a higher level of existence. I’ve no idea how he intended to do that, and I was rescued before he could, but when I saw that body in the cave I…”

She broke off, and tears started to flow. Her voice became choked and took on a higher pitch, and she continued.

“I found myself back in that chair. He was standing over me. And this time he didn’t stop. This time he tore me wide open and I screamed and screamed but it wouldn’t stop and—”

“And then I found you and you almost killed me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Got nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry for not taking you seriously earlier.”

Ciri began to weep openly, and after a few awkward seconds, Lambert wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer. Her tears streamed down his metal pauldrons, and he stared straight ahead, letting her get it all out.

After a few minutes the tears ceased, and she separated from him. Her makeup had run down her cheeks, staining her face like dripping paint. She wiped it clean as best she could, but shadows of it still remained. She sniffled and stood up. Lambert followed suit.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Feel better?”

“Remains to be seen. But I’m ready to move on if you are.”

He nodded, then started to follow the trail again. “Come on, then.”

* * *

“Wow,” said Sheana just as the village came back into view. “And I thought my family was cursed.”

“If I’ve learned one thing from all of this, it’s that the only thing we can control in life is how we respond to what it throws at us. But even that can be predictable. In the end I chose to become what everybody already thought I was.”

“Well you’ll find no judgment here,” she said. “At least not from me. I actually rather like you.”

“Most do once they get to know me. I can tell your other companions might take a while to warm up to the idea.”

“To be honest, I think they blame me. I was the one who robbed the witcher girl and stabbed her in the belly, which brought her down upon us. Then it turned out Mistle knew her from all those years ago. What are the odds of that?”

“Astronomical, if you believe it was a coincidence.”

“You don’t?”

“I find that coincidences like that are very carefully orchestrated by someone unseen. You might have been led to her without even realizing.”

Sheana looked at her and cocked her head back. “I find that even more unlikely. Who’d be able to do that?”

A smile was her only response.

“At any rate, I’m very lucky. When it came time for my punishment, the witcher girl said she was going to stab me in the belly to return the favor, but Mistle stepped in front of me right as she thrust. Took the blow for me.”

Syanna arched an eyebrow. “She let Ciri _stab_ her? Even after you’d earned it?”

“Didn’t make sense to me either. Want to know the really weird part? After it happened Mistle lifted up her shirt, and the wound had completely healed. Like it was never there. Must have been a trick or something. But I swear I heard the sword go in.”

Frowning, she considered that. “Tell you what: I’ll ask her about it later. For now, let’s just get back with the water.”

“Right. We’ve kept that sorceress waiting long enough.”

They moved closer to the hut, and they were almost there when Syanna grabbed the other woman by the arm and yanked her behind a tree, nearly causing the water to spill.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“Sh.” A finger moved in front of her mouth, and Syanna gestured towards the village. The younger woman craned her neck out from behind the tree, and immediately understood.

Walking through the street, being given a wide berth by the villagers, was a quartet of men in full Nilfgaardian battle regalia. Their leader marched a short distance ahead, clad in ornate black armor, with a sword at his side. They were heading in their general direction, but did not seem to have noticed them.

“What do you think they’re doing here?” Sheana whispered.

“I’m not sure. What do they usually do here?”

“Collect tribute, mostly. But never with armor that fancy. The group that usually makes the collection just came by a couple days ago. They’re not due for another month.”

“Then they’re here for another reason. No one in town has seen you, correct?”

“Us, no. But you three rode in right up the middle of the street in broad daylight. Each of you stands out from a crowd as it is.”

“Word couldn’t have reached them that fast. Here’s what we’ll do: you take that water down to Mistle and report what you saw. I’ll follow them and see if I can glean anything. I’m the only face the villagers don’t know.”

“But Mistle said—”

“To have you escort me to get water. You did just that. She’ll understand, I promise.”

Sheana nodded her head. “You’re right. Just be careful, okay?”

She smirked. “I always am.”

* * *

Chief Inspector Erend Klossowski Beauregard de Belhaven had not expected to be in Dun Dâre today. Nor had he expected to be in full uniform, accompanied by four soldiers assigned directly from the Impera Brigade, the Emperor’s personal guard. But given that the Emperor himself had ordered this mission, he could at least say he understood why. Mostly.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with pitch black hair and an impeccably clean-shaven face. His expression was neutral but his deep blue eyes were vibrant and alive, filled with such intensity that few could stare directly into them for long. He marched with a perfectly formal posture, leading the men behind him by example. The crowd parted before them, and he went about memorizing faces as he passed.

Their assignment had begun in Unicorn, a village several miles to the east. They were sent to investigate reports of a strange occurrence that happened several days before Saovine, an attempted robbery that had turned into a brawl. Upon arriving, they found that the tavern where the battle had taken place had been torn almost completely asunder, its roof missing entirely.

The strangest part was that the villagers told them the tavern had been destroyed three days after the event that they had come to investigate. It had resulted from another row that ended with a display of immense magical power, the likes of which the village had never seen. Afterward, the source of this magic had disappeared, absconded with by a group of mysterious strangers who had also come to investigate the original incident.

Once their questions had been exhausted, they followed the trail here, and had just arrived at the house of the Ealdorman. Erend knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Military Intelligence in the service of His Imperial Majesty,” he answered honestly. There was no point attempting subterfuge while accompanied by four men in full plate. “You are the ealdorman of this village, correct?”

He heard several locks click behind the door before it opened to reveal a man wearing thick glasses, a black silk robe, and a truly gaudy display of jewelry. The man bowed.

“That I am. Uriah Stonefeldt, at your service.”

“You will allow us entry into your domicile, Ealdorman Stonefeldt.”

“But of course.” He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Two of the soldiers remained at the door, their spears planted firmly on the wood of the porch. The other two accompanied him inside.

Erend made a cursory scan of the room, which proved just as ostentatious as the Ealdorman’s style of dress. Compared to the village outside, it was inordinately luxurious. Far too much so for him to have acquired all of it by occupying such a lowly station. He had his suspicions, but did not voice them outright. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance…” He trailed off, letting his words hang in the air like a string waiting to be cut.

“Chief Inspector will suffice.”

“Very well, Chief Inspector. How may I assist you?”

“Are you aware of events that transpired in the neighboring village of Unicorn roughly two days after Saovine?”

Uriah stroked his chin, pivoting slowly back and forth. “I can’t say I am. We don’t communicate very often with other villages. It takes time, you see, and we have no mages to make such things proceed more quickly.”

“It matters little. Has anyone arrived in your village recently?”

“People arrive every day. This is a waystation for many a traveler, and our tavern sees a good number of them passing through.”

“Anyone remarkable?”

He steepled his fingers together and brought them in front of his mouth. “A few. May I ask what your interest is?”

“You may not. That information is classified.”

“Well I’m afraid I may not be much help if I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“A gang, at least five members, going by the name of the Rats. We have reason to believe this gang was involved in an altercation in Unicorn on the date specified earlier. Have they sought shelter in your village, from you or anybody else?”

He spied a slight widening of the ealdorman’s eyes, an involuntary reaction that he quickly suppressed, but not quickly enough. The Chief Inspector squinted, examining him more closely.

“Not to my knowledge, no. There are several gangs in the area, and like any other village we occasionally have to part with some money to keep them from attacking, but we certainly wouldn’t offer shelter to any of them.”

The Chief Inspector stood up straighter. “You admit to bribing local bandits, thus financing them directly?”

“Well, not in such terms. They force it on us, whenever they kidnap some of the villagers and demand that we pay ransom. It’s how life is around here.”

“The Empire provides you with protection from such threats.”

“Is that so? I’ve never seen it happen as long as I’ve been alive. Aside from your visit today, the last time the army came through here was when they collected taxes a couple of days ago. Before that it had been a month. We can’t rely on the Empire to solve every little problem for us.”

“Inexcusable. There is a garrison not ten miles from here that you could call upon.”

“And you think we haven’t tried? Every time we’re told that the Empire has more important problems to worry about than some missing villagers. Those of us who can fight are no match for the bandits, and there’s just too many of them. Paying them is the only way, and it’s driven us nearly destitute. We can barely afford to pay Nilfgaard as well.”

He looked skeptically around the room. “Your mouth tells one story, but your home tells another. I would estimate the value of everything immediately visible to be over ten thousand florens. Outside there are children starving in the street. I wonder if your tongue will continue to produce lies after we burn it out.”

Turning to the soldiers, he motioned for one to restrain the ealdorman, while the other grabbed a poker and held it over the fire.

“Wait, what are you doing? You can’t—”

“I can and I will, unless you start telling the truth right now. How long have bandits been paying you for shelter? How long have you been stockpiling those riches for yourself, while letting the people of your village starve?”

“That’s not what’s happening!” He struggled in the grasp of the large soldier, but it was like trying to wriggle free from a vise. “I’m telling the truth, I swear!”

The Chief Inspector glanced over to the poker, which had begun to glow slightly orange. It would take a few minutes before it was ready.

“I will ask again, but you should know my patience is limited. Lie to me this time, and you will not receive a third opportunity. Have the Rats been paying you for shelter?”

By this time Uriah had noticed the man heating the poker, and his eyes grew wide with fear. “Yes! But you must understand, they forced me, threatened to kill me and my—”

“Break his arm.”

“Wait, no I—AAAAAHHHH!” The ealdorman’s arm bent unnaturally far, then snapped. The bone stayed beneath the skin, but now his arm hung loosely by his side, before the man twisted it behind his back again, and he gave another shout of pain.

“For each new lie that passes your lips, I will have Dietrich here provide you with another reminder that you should not attempt to deceive a representative of the Empire. Is that understood?”

He grimaced in pain, but nodded.

“Very well. Now tell me: are they here now?”

“I don’t know! We provided them with a safehouse at the end of the village. It has a cellar underneath, where the tavern used to store its ale. If they are here that’s where you’ll find them!”

Now that he understood the severity of his situation, his tongue had ceased to be quite so silvery. Erend looked down at him dispassionately, and continued.

“See? That was not so hard. We will inspect this location to see if you are telling the truth. However, due to your flagrant violation of several imperial statutes, I am afraid you must be punished. Misha, the poker, if you please.”

The other soldier walked over and handed him the implement, which he snaked back and forth a few times, rolling his wrist.  “Hold his mouth open.”

“Wait! What if I tell you more?”

“At this point, nothing can save you.”

“Not even if I can tell you where to find an ashen-haired girl with green eyes and a scar on her face?”

He paused, then returned the poker to a neutral position. “Go on.”

“It was only a few years ago when nearly the entire Empire was mobilized to search for a girl fitting that description,” he said. “Around Saovine of that year she came here and slaughtered mercenaries who’d been hired by Stefan Skellen. And just today she stood in this very room, threatening me.”

“Why should I believe you?”

He was panting now, sweat dripping down his face as he continued to wince from the pain. “Because you’ve made it abundantly clear what will happen if I lie. I’ve every incentive to tell the truth.”

“Very well. Where is she?”

“If I tell you, will you forget about everything else? Let me be a free man, not marred any further?”

He nodded. “You have my word. Release him.”

“She accompanied a witcher who accepted a contract from me,” he revealed, cradling his broken arm. “To find eight missing villagers in the Pereplut Swamp. I expect they’ll return either tonight or in the morning. Once they’ve made a show of looking for them before giving up.”

“What makes you so certain of that? There are other things that could happen. They could succeed, or they could fail to return. If the latter happens, our deal is off.”

Uriah moved slowly into his chair, grimacing along the way. “They’ll be here. I promise. All you have to do is wait.”

“And wait we shall. After we inspect the safehouse you informed us about. Dietrich, guard him and see to that arm. Misha, with me.”

They walked out the door, and he heard the ealdorman scream as the soldier snapped his arm back into place. He failed to notice the woman on the other side of the building, dressed in silver and blue, who muttered a curse under her breath.

“Damn.”


	22. Crimson Moon

“Fuck,” said Lambert as the relatively shallow swamp gave way to a deep pond. “Tracks end here. Too many different ways they could have gone.”

Ciri walked up next to him and leaned over, peering into the water, which faded completely into darkness about ten feet down. “That doesn’t make any sense. Nothing so far has suggested a water-dwelling monster.”

“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have crossed the water to cover its tracks.”

“Or that it was the only monster these people fell victim to.”

Lambert nodded, peering down into the water as well. “A bunch of villagers lost in a swamp would probably scatter if something attacked. That’s why those tracks led off in different directions. We’ve only found where one trail ends. There could be others.”

“It would take too long to go back and start over,” she said. “And I doubt we’ll learn anything by diving to the bottom of this pond. Not to mention finding the villagers isn’t the main reason we’re here. I say we switch focus to finding the witch.”

“Right. Only problem is, we have no idea where to start.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She produced something out of her pouch, a necklace with a wolf’s fang that had been engraved with runes. “This was a totem given to our werewolf friend by the witch, to control his transformation.”

Lambert nodded. “He cut himself with it right before he transformed. Keira said it was blood magic, right?”

“Exactly. She traced its magical signature and determined that the one who enchanted it is somewhere in this swamp.”

“That doesn’t get us anywhere. The most we can do is use our medallions to follow that signature, but it could get thrown off by any number of things.”

Ciri stared into the pond once more. The sun had broken through the canopy and was currently reflected on the water, further obscuring its depths behind a blinding curtain. She closed her eyes reflexively, then turned back again slowly as the clouds covered the sky once more.

“Maybe we’ve been thinking about this all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just remembering something Vilgefortz used to say.”

“Come again now?”

She sighed. “Vilgefortz used to lord his cleverness over people by saying they’d mistaken the stars reflected on the water’s surface at night for the heavens,” she elaborated. “Meaning they were so focused on what they wanted to see that they ended up going down the wrong path. Maybe instead of running around in circles looking for this witch, we should try and bring her to us.”

He crossed his arms and stared at her skeptically. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

“She uses blood magic, right?” Ciri reached down and unsheathed the dagger attached to her belt. “So if you want to get her attention…”

“Ciri, wait!”

Before he could stop her, she had already made an incision across the underside of her forearm, letting the blood dribble onto the amulet. To her great satisfaction it began to glow bright red, pulsing with energy every couple of seconds.

“See? I told you it’d work.”

He snatched the amulet from her. “That was a stupid move. Do you know how many monsters that blood could bring running?”

“I think you’re overreacting,” she replied, smiling. “Now all we need do is follow that signal to—“

Her sentence ended abruptly as something strong wrapped around her ankle and yanked her under the water.

* * *

“Nice of you to finally join us,” said Mistle as Syanna descended the ladder into the basement. She ignored the barb, walking closer to the other woman with a scowl on her face.

“We’re blown,” she said, just low enough for her to hear without alerting the rest of the room.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I trust Sheana here explained why I’m just now returning?”

“Aye. Said some Nilfgaardians showed up, and you had the boneheaded idea to listen in on them.”

“It’s a good thing I did. They talked to the ealdorman, and he gave you up. They barely even tortured him.”

Mistle’s expression turned dark. “Ungrateful piece of dog shite. Was the coin we gave him not good enough?”

“Not enough that he’d risk his own hide trying to explain where he got it. They’re on their way over here right now. We need to clear out.”

“Agreed.” She turned to face the rest of the group. “Oi, Rats! We’ve got company incoming!”

The energy in the room changed immediately, as the various members of the gang reached for their weapons and grew more alert. None of them said anything, looking to Mistle for direction.

“Now I know you’d all love nothing more than to show them why nobody should mess with us, but we’ve our wounded to consider. Stephanos won’t be any help in a fight, not in his state. We’ll need to move out of here, a couple at a time, and hope trouble doesn’t find us in the meantime.”

Keira stood up. “There is another solution.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Do we know how close they are?”

Syanna nodded. “I saw them making preparations in the village. I’d estimate we have about five minutes before they show up.” 

“More than enough time.” She glanced down at Stephanos. “We’ll need to move him further into the back, but I should be able to conjure up an illusion that can survive any inspection while not requiring us to move an inch.”

The rest of the Rats stood there dumbly for several seconds before Mistle clapped her hands. “Well? What are you waiting for? Horace, Faloanthír, move Stephanos into the back room— _carefully_. Sheana, go topside and keep a lookout, but stay out of sight. The rest of you, with me.”

They nodded and carried out their instructions, bringing Stephanos’ unconscious body into the room from which he’d emerged when Mistle, Syanna, and Ciri first arrived. It was nearing nightfall now, and they watched as Sheana scaled the ladder silently, out of sight. They huddled in the back room, while Keira began concentrating on her spell. Syanna glanced back towards the wounded man.

“Will he be alright while you do that?”

Keira nodded. “At this point there’s nothing else I can do for him. The salve has done its work, and his fever’s broken. Given time he might recover from this on his own, or he’ll die a slow and painful death. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s lasted this long.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Well I shan’t sugarcoat it. Now be quiet while I focus on casting this illusion. You’ll need to hold your tongue afterward as well, since it will only prevent them from seeing us.”

Syanna shrugged and went back to waiting.

“There,” said the sorceress as she finished her incantation. “All done. I dare say this would fool even Lambert.”

“Speaking of which,” she said. “There’s one more thing. The ealdorman gave up Ciri as well, to save his arse. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re like to wait in ambush.”

“All the more reason we should silence them here,” whispered Faloanthír. “I don’t much care for the _beanna_ _vatt’ghern_ , but that doesn’t mean I’ll let the Black Ones take her.”

“Your concern is heartening,” she replied. “But that may not be the best course. These aren’t common thugs or bounty hunters. They’re wearing full plate and they bear the insignia of the Impera Brigade. Those are the Emperor’s personal guards.”

Mistle turned to her and spoke in a hushed tone. “What are they doing all the way out here, then?”

“From what I overheard, it’s because of what these idiots did in Unicorn. For some reason it’s piqued the interest of the Emperor himself. That must be why they relented after the ealdorman mentioned Ciri.”

“Doesn’t make sense, though,” she said. “From what Ciri tells me the Emperor thinks she’s dead.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t believe everything he hears,” said Keira. “Now hush, please. I suspect they’re coming soon.”

“We still don’t know what our play is,” whispered Horace.

“Sit tight for now,” said Mistle. “We don’t have the advantage here and even with a sorceress on our side I wouldn’t say we stand a spectacular chance at winning.”

“Stabilizing your friend rather tapped me out, I’m afraid,” Keira informed them. “It took all I had left just to put up this illusion.”

“So we wait,” said Syanna. “Once they see this place is empty they’ll likely return to the ealdorman’s hut and wait in ambush there. We’ll surround them and counter their ambush with one of our own.”

Mistle nodded. “Sounds solid. Now quiet.”

The moment the words left her mouth, they heard the door open in the structure above.

* * *

“CIRI!”

She didn’t even have time to scream before Lambert saw her pulled into the water by an enormous tentacle that had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Even with the enhanced vision his eyes afforded him, he could see nothing except the bubbles that indicated her struggle.

“Every fucking time,” he grumbled. “Should’ve known better than to stand right on the shore.”

He had drawn his sword and was preparing to dive in after her when he heard a hiss from behind. Dodging to the left, he narrowly avoided a drowner that had been rushing headlong at him, intent on tackling him into the depths. As it passed, he put his sword in front of it, using its own momentum to cut it in half. Both chunks continued moving forward, disappearing into the water.

At this point more drowners had risen from the muck, crawling their way out of burrows dug into the swampy ground. They began to surround him in a semi-circle, with the water to his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but bubbles, unsure of whether Ciri was even still alive.

Lambert had two options in front of him: kill the drowners and risk letting Ciri get eaten, which may have already happened, or jump to her rescue and let the drowners follow, where they would be much harder to defeat.

He didn’t have time to think any further as two of them lunged forward from opposite sides. Rolling forward, he managed to avoid both swipes and turned around to face the rest of them.

There wasn’t a choice—not really. Ciri was more than capable of looking after herself. She’d proven that more times than he could remember. He couldn’t help her with all these drowners distracting him anyway. He snarled, putting his sword in front of him.

“Let’s dance.”

Two more charged at him, and he blocked one swipe with his sword while ducking under the other. Moving the sword to its neck, he stepped around the body of the drowner and slid the blade along its throat, then grabbed the other end of the sword and placed his foot against the small of its back, pushing forward with all his strength. The creature’s neck gave no resistance as it passed through the blade, severing its head as its body went staggering into the other.

By this time a third leapt at him from behind, but he had already pirouetted out of the way, slicing through it as he pivoted. It hit the ground hard, and he stomped on its neck, hearing a satisfying crunch. The fourth attempted to bite him, but he stepped around it, cutting off its arm with an upward stroke. The creature shrieked, and Lambert used that opportunity to separate its head from its shoulders.

The first two were after him again, and he ducked and weaved out of their way as they swiped at him with reckless abandon. Pure, unadulterated hunger had taken over, not that these creatures were powerhouses of logic and self-preservation to begin with. Once they smelled blood, it became the only thing on their minds.

Spotting an opening, he formed the sign of Igni, setting both of them ablaze. They shrieked in pain, and he used that opportunity to shred them to ribbons. Soon only three remained.

They all descended on him at once, hammering against the Quen shield that he quickly threw over himself. He rolled out of the way just as they all converged, and they smacked their heads together in a display that he’d probably be laughing about for years to come. For the moment, however, he stayed focused, cutting them down one after the other with ruthless efficiency.

He cut the last of them in half, from shoulder to hip, and watched the two halves slaw off one another, until at last it grew still. Not even taking a moment to rest, he dashed over to the water and dove in headfirst.

His eyes adjusted instantly to the light, and he could see the bottom from here. Unfortunately, that also meant he could see what had grabbed Ciri.

It was an aeschna.

Also known as a kayran, it preferred bodies of water where it could feed on detritus and the occasional poor soul who went for a dip. It was incredibly venomous, impossibly strong in its element, and its tentacles could easily shatter every bone in a man’s body.

None of which appeared to matter to Ciri, who was currently teleporting around it in a mad frenzy, slicing at its tentacles as it thrashed.

Lambert decided against swimming closer, holding his breath as he watched the display.

Any doubts about her abilities evaporated as he saw the creature flail helplessly in the face of her onslaught. Each time it swung, she was already gone, already stabbing it where it least expected her to be. The water turned dark crimson, and his vision started to cloud until all he could see were the occasional flashes of green.

He hadn’t just gotten lucky when he subdued her earlier. It was an outright miracle that he hadn’t been killed.

Eventually the monster’s screams ceased, and the water grew still. He saw a flash of green in his peripheral, and felt Ciri grab his arm. They swam to the surface together, emerging with two long gasps.

“Are you alright?” she asked once they’d pulled themselves out of the pond.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “You?”

“My heart rate’s up a bit, but I suspect that’s normal.” She laughed, if only to release the tension. “I killed it!”

He nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Geralt told me about the time he ran into one of those in Flotsam. Said he had a hell of a time putting that one down. Nothing like what you just did.”

Further laughter erupted from her. “Oh, that was thrilling! Is it bad that I’m excited?”

“Not at all. You earned it.”

Ciri exhaled loudly, then propped herself up against a nearby tree. “Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.” He pulled out the wolf fang pendant and returned it to her hands. “Hope this was worth it.”

“We’ll find out, won’t we? And now we’ve a right to demand extra given that the villagers weren’t taken by just one monster.”

Lambert chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

“We need to press on.”

He clutched his stomach, still breathing heavily. “In a little bit. I feel like we’ve both earned a break.”

* * *

As they made their way through the dense foliage, the amulet continued to pulse with a bright crimson glow, like a heartbeat that grew more intense the closer they got to whatever it was that it detected. Ciri parted a curtain of vines that led into a larger clearing, and Lambert followed. Resting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the area in front of her.

“It seems to be leading us that way,” she said. “Closer to where we entered the swamp. But when we started it was indicating the opposite direction. We couldn’t have overshot it, not at the rate we were going.”

“That means it’s moving, then.”

“It would seem so.”

“How’d you know to do that, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Activate the amulet with your blood,” he clarified. “Thought never occurred to me.”

“I’m not really sure how,” she said. “I just did. The Elder Blood… it reveals answers to me sometimes. Answers I shouldn’t know. But it’s never been reliable, and half the time it ends up meaning the opposite of what I thought it did.”

“Prophecy’s a real bitch like that.”

“Yet another reason I’ll never understand why I was given this power. Avallac’h told me it was meant to be utilized by an elven sage, wiser than any who had come before. Someone who could unravel the mysteries of time and space with barely a thought. But here I am, some half-breed witcheress, mucking about in a swamp and staring dumbly at everything I see.”

Lambert put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, forget all that, okay? I know all about being burdened with something you never asked for. It’s no reason to hate yourself. Hate the people who made you this way instead.”

“You say that like I don’t already. But sometimes I can’t help feeling like all of them are right about me. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I won’t live long enough to learn it all the way the Aen Elle did. Sometimes I wish someone would take these powers from me so I can just be done with it all.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve gotten used to being a witcher, but I never asked for it, and if I could undo it all, I would. But since there isn’t anybody who can do that, I guess I’m stuck with it.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t quit being a witcher. Your mutations are permanent, sure, but there are other ways to make a living.”

“Like highway robbery?”

Ciri started walking forward again, and he followed after her. The amulet continued to pulse, growing stronger the closer they got.

“For your information, I’m only travelling with the Rats for Mistle. I’ve no desire to engage in banditry again.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll just stand by and watch while they steal and murder. That totally makes it okay.”

She crossed her arms and turned around, walking backwards as she glared at him. “You’re acting as though their victims are entirely innocent. When I last ran with them, we only plundered Nilfgaardian settlements. People forget that Ebbing didn’t become part of the Empire willingly, nor did Cintra, Attre, or any number of provinces that aren’t considered part of the Northern Realms.”

“So you were what, doing your part for the war effort? Robbing civilians isn’t exactly gonna bring an army to its knees. You were taking advantage of chaos and ruining people’s lives. Doesn’t matter if they were innocent or not.”

“Why is this so important to you? It’s not like you’ve never committed murder. I heard you once made a man shoot his partner with a crossbow, then hang himself. How is that any different than what you accuse me of doing?”

“Because at least I’m honest with myself about what I do and why I do it,” he replied. “All I’ve heard out of you so far is excuses to make your actions seem justifiable in retrospect. If you’re gonna do those things, then own it.”

“Fine then!” she shouted. “You want to know my dirty secret? I liked doing those things! Given everything the world did to me before that I dare say I felt I was entitled to a little payback! And I didn’t care one bit about whether it was right or wrong! Satisfied?”

“Very. At least now you’re being honest with yourself.”

She turned away from him and walked normally again. “So what now? Shall I repent and throw myself upon the mercy of the law? I know what I did was wrong. But the more people remind me of that, the less I find that I care.”

Lambert rested his forehead against a closed fist. “Look. I know I’m not in any position to lecture you on being a good person…”

“Good. Then don’t.”

“Wasn’t planning to. But are these really the people you want to spend the rest of your life associating with?”

“Why not? Unlike most others I’ve met, they actually understand me. I told you already, I’m exactly like them. Given the things I’ve done, it’s where I belong.”

He sighed. “If you say so.”

The clearing had ended by this point, and they were back amidst the trees and the dense undergrowth. The amulet flashed more strongly, pulsing so rapidly it practically became a solid light. Their medallions began to vibrate, and Lambert’s hand went to his sword.

There was a burst of light from the amulet that spread out in every direction, echoing like a thunderclap. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped glowing altogether, its energy spent.

“Well what does that mean?”

Ciri held the amulet in front of her face, swinging it back and forth. “Not sure. Perhaps we need to look around?”

Both of them heard a giggle, sourceless and echoing all around them. They spun and looked in every direction, spying nothing. Lambert sniffed the air, and narrowed his eyes. A few feet away, behind a tree, some vines rustled and a flash of pale skin rushed past them.

“There!” he shouted. “Follow her!”

* * *

The door to the hut burst inward following a strong kick from an armored boot, tossing up dust that cascaded slowly downward, catching scattered bits of fading sunlight that penetrated through the clouds. Darkness was nearly upon them, and the men surged inside the small structure.

The rug in the center was quickly tossed aside, revealing a hatch underneath. One of the men opened it quickly, while the others kept their spears trained on the opening. Misha, the one who had opened the hatch, ducked his head down quickly and scanned left to right. It was difficult to see given that there were no sources of light, but the lamp he dangled down into the space took care of that.

“Clear,” he whispered, and the men descended down the ladder one by one. The Chief Inspector went down last, sparing one final look at the village outside.

“Spread out,” he ordered. “Search all cavities. You never know where someone could be hiding.”

The men did as ordered, and he took this time to examine what he knew.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon had last been seen in Skellige, on the Isle of Undvik, where the Imperial Navy had set aside its campaign to battle an otherworldly force known to superstitious peasants as the Wild Hunt. The battle had supposedly claimed her life, and none expected to hear news about her again.

Still, even if the ealdorman was lying, he could not pass up this opportunity. Erend had been in Military Intelligence for over a decade, and he still remembered what happened the last time the agents of the Empire had been on the hunt for Cirilla. The Rats had come up then too, as the name of the gang she had become associated with. He wondered why he hadn’t made the connection before.

If they were here, then there was a chance that she would be as well. This was worth investigating after all.

“All clear,” said Misha from across the room. “There is no one here.”

He nodded. “Then we return to the ealdorman’s house and await the ashen-haired woman there. The gang is of little consequence compared to her.”

“Yes sir.”

They began to ascend the ladder, but stopped when a small sound, like a moan, came from behind a wall. Erend narrowed his eyes.

“Wait.”

* * *

Mistle slapped her hand over Stephanos’ mouth, while the others stared at her with breathless uncertainty. Syanna and Keira were the only ones who seemed unfazed, so accustomed to danger that they had seen this outcome as inevitable.

The Nilfgaardians flooded back into the cellar, approaching the illusion. Fortunately it was tactile, meaning that although sound could pass through it, it felt every bit as solid as a real wall. The leader’s hand pressed against it, and he narrowed his eyes at them, which they saw thanks to the illusion only going one way.

Several tense minutes went by as they waited in silence, suppressing whatever small noises their bodies were dying to make. Mistle kept Stephanos’ nostrils clear, which allowed him to breathe, but nothing else. Syanna kept her hands on her sword, while Horace quietly nocked an arrow.

At the other end of the cellar, the sunlight began to fade as nightfall commenced.

* * *

“There!” said Ciri, her heart thundering in her ears while she ran as quickly as her legs would carry her.

The figure they chased was difficult to make out, but definitely female, and even more definitely naked. Now was not the time to ponder her lack of clothes, since she moved through the swamp faster than a dryad. Lambert only kept up due to his witcher’s physique, while Ciri had to call upon her powers.

Together they kept pace with her for a mile or so, leading deeper into the swamp. Ciri closed her eyes and teleported ahead, sticking her arm in front of the woman’s neck as she dashed by. Her quarry was faster, however, and dropped to her knees, sliding under the obstacle. She gritted her teeth and took off running after her again.

Lambert swung at an approaching drowner without even breaking stride, cutting it in half as he continued to run. He vaulted over a small log, hitting the wet ground with a splash as water kicked up all around him. He converged with Ciri just as the mysterious woman vanished into a small cave, similar to the one they had found before.

“Wait!” He threw up his hand, and they came to a halt right by the entrance. “She stopped moving.”

“Good,” said Ciri. “Let’s go get her, then.”

He shook his head. “Be smart about this. If she’s not running anymore that means she was leading us here. This is probably her lair, but it’s also a trap.”

“Any suggestions, then?”

“Well first off, I’m gonna prepare.” He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a small potion vial containing a liquid that looked like dirtied milk. He downed it in one shot, then drank another one, which had a more yellow tint to it. His pupils dilated so that he could take in as much light as possible, allowing him to see perfectly in the dark.

“Cat and Golden Oriole? I understand why you need the first one, but…”

“Spiders usually have poison,” he explained. “Can’t give any of this to you, so be careful in there and don’t get bit.”

Ciri smirked. “I shall try my damnedest.”

Pulling their swords out at the same time, they ventured into the cave. Ciri’s eyes adjusted slowly to the light, but she could see no more than five feet in front of her. Lambert clearly didn’t have that issue, and so took the lead.

They heard moaning ahead, from multiple different sources. Glancing at each other, they continued forward, stepping as silently as they could against the hard, echoing stone. Eventually they reached a larger chamber, which had several openings across the ceiling, allowing light to peek in from the outside. Ciri realized suddenly that she had begun to glow again without noticing.

Advancing further into the chamber, they stopped abruptly, and her face turned pale at what she saw.

Littered throughout the cavern were multiple corpses like the one she had seen earlier, devoured from the inside and left to rot. Three of them, however, were still alive and writhing, two on the walls and one on the floor. Their bellies were swollen and bloated, and they moaned in helpless agony.

In the center of all of them, smiling innocently, was the woman they had chased. She was blonde, completely naked, and her face looked somehow familiar, though Ciri could not place it. She twirled her hair while they stared.

“Are you the witch?”

“Me? That’s a rude thing to call someone, isn’t it?”

“Don’t have time for small talk,” said Lambert, advancing forward. “Answer the question or get ready to hurt.”

Her smile turned cruel. “I don’t believe I have to answer anything. You’re the ones who’ve come where you don’t belong, destroying the local fauna, trampling all over everything. Upsetting my babies.”

“Your babies?” repeated Ciri. “We’ve only seen what they’ve left behind. Are you responsible for…” She gestured to the bodies. “…this?”

“Help us!” a woman screamed.

“Get us out of here!” shouted the man across the room.

“Like what you see?” She laughed devilishly. “Perhaps you’d like to try it. I’m sure you’d make a lovely host for my brood.”

Ciri tightened her grip on her sword. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Before we kill you,” said Lambert, “You’re gonna tell us where we can find the witch.”

“And how to fix my friend,” she added, holding up the pendant.

“Ah, I see you have one of mother’s gifts,” the woman said. “I have one just like it.” She put her thumbs underneath a gold necklace, at the end of which was a pendant resembling a spider. “But unless it was meant for you, you shouldn’t have taken it. Especially not tonight.”

“Why not?”

She turned to one of the holes in the ceiling. “Look outside.”

They both did so, and Ciri’s eyes grew wider. “Oh no.”

* * *

Sheana was crouched behind a tree from which she could view the hut, out of sight. She had seen the Nilfgaardians enter, but thus far they had not come out. No sounds had reached her that indicated any sort of fight had started, and she had no way to communicate with the rest of the group.

This whole thing was her fault. Whether it was orchestrated by another or not, she was the one who had brought Ciri’s attention to them. She was the one who suggested to Horace that they raid Unicorn, though she let the rest of the group believe it was his decision. She was the cause of all their troubles.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

She let out a small yelp and jumped, turning around to see a man behind her wearing a yellow tunic and blue tights, with two satchels strapped across opposite shoulders. He smiled confidently at her.

“Who are you? How did you sneak up on me?” She frowned. “And how did you know what I was thinking?”

“I can answer you the first question,” he said. “My name is Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Why are you here?”

He gestured around them. “You picked a lovely spot from which to watch everything unfold. I could hardly think of a better one.”

She squinted at him, confused.

“Look up.”

As she did, the clouds parted, and from behind them was revealed a full moon. Sheana gasped.

“Oh shit.”

* * *

“Sir, is everything alright?” asked Misha.

“Quiet,” he said, leaning closer to the wall. “I thought I heard something.”

“Perhaps it was rats, sir?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, smirking. “I believe it was. Break it down.”

“Right away, sir.”

He stepped back as the men went to work, producing hammers with which they began to chip away at the wall. But no matter how hard or how quickly they struck it, nothing about it seemed to change.

After a minute or so, they all heard a low growl, and then an inhuman wail of agony, followed by rapid movement. There were sounds of claws scraping against stone, and finally a low, guttural howl. Erend’s eyes grew wide and he drew his sword.

“Men, get away from the wall! Now!”

His warning reached them too late as, bursting through the illusion, the werewolf sunk his teeth into Misha’s neck, then ripped out his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There hasn't been any real action for the last few chapters, so I put a lot of it in this one. We're starting to reach the point where everything I set up earlier in this arc finally gets a payoff. Enjoy.


	23. Creatures of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some extremely vivid horror imagery. It’s not that much worse than what’s shown up in previous chapters, but I’m still putting this warning here so you have a heads up.

A tortured howl, loud and resonant, echoed throughout the cramped space as a previously limp form became animated by rage and hunger, changing and twisting into something larger as his mind swirled in a mad hurricane. The wound on his chest, stretching from shoulder to hip, began to glow bright crimson, arcing with energy that leapt randomly from his body.

A claw slashed forward, and Mistle stepped in its way. It tore through her, starting at the neck and going down her chest, leaving long, jagged wounds that sprayed blood across the whole space. Without breaking stride, Stephanos carved through the illusion in a heartbeat, then tore out the throat of the closest Nilfgaardian.

By this time the men had backed away, but down here, there was nowhere to go. It was too cramped to make much use of their spears, and the beast had a long reach with claws that, if they couldn’t make it all the way through their armor, could at least hit it forcefully enough to shatter bone. That meant the shortswords wouldn’t be much help either.

The tight confines of the space should have spelled trouble for the werewolf, but he merely destroyed anything in between them, shattering wooden shelves and clawing through dirt. Erend was closest to the ladder, and was already climbing as Stephanos carved through his men like a can opener.

One man was hurled against the wall, falling roughly before rising up and charging with his sword, a mistake which shortened him by a head as the werewolf clotheslined him with enough strength to separate it from his shoulders. The other managed to tag him in the flank, but the steel bounced off his hide, and he countered by tearing off the man’s leg with his teeth. The bleeding never got the chance to kill him; the shock did it first.

Erend reached the top of the ladder, slamming the hatch shut, for all the good it would do. A second later, Stephanos burst through the floor, covered in blood and training his sights on the man running back in the direction of the village.

* * *

“Who are you?” asked Ciri as they circled each other in the moonlit cave. The woman was smiling hungrily at her, in a way that made it very clear that she had left her humanity behind. “And why are you doing… this?”

“Boring… boring…” She fluttered a hand in front of her mouth and toyed with her necklace, pausing to rub the engorged stomach of the closest woman lovingly. “It’s obvious, can’t you see? My children must feed before they can be born.”

“But why villagers?” Ciri moved her sword in a snake pattern, ready to pounce. The woman stood up, patting the victim’s belly a couple of times before running her tongue over her teeth. “Surely there are other creatures in the swamp you could make use of.”

“Should they grow inside a drowner’s belly?” She giggled. “I suppose so. But what difference does it make? If they wished to avoid this fate, they should not have come here.”

They were moaning louder, and their swollen bellies began to writhe and crawl. One woman wailed, then began to cough up blood as her whole body convulsed. Soon the others followed suit, and the cavern was filled with a cacophony of misery. Ciri stepped back, looking between them in panic.

“What is this?”

She grinned. “Did you really think you could save them? Something wonderful is happening.”

“The fuck it is!” shouted Lambert, grabbing a bomb from his pouch and hurling it at her. The woman ducked to the side with supernatural speed, and it exploded behind her, throwing up a cloud of silver specks.

Laughing even as the whole cavern screamed, the woman jabbed the teeth of her necklace into her upper chest. Her veins began to glow bright red, and black mist swirled around her form as she morphed and changed into something horrifying. Everything from her torso up remained unchanged, but now she had eight legs, covered in thick black hairs that skittered around the cave floor. Her eyes had multiplied as well, and teeth like long knives filled her mouth as she ceased to resemble anything human.

The screams ceased suddenly as the hosts died, leaving only the wriggling mass beneath their distended bellies, which exploded open, and a horde of spiders the size of rats swarmed out of them, covering the space.

Ciri stared, frozen, before Lambert smacked her against the shoulder. Shaking her head to clear it, she raised her sword in front of her, and the glow surrounding her intensified.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

* * *

“MISTLE!”

It was crowded enough in the small space where they had retreated, and now Mistle had toppled over two of them, staining them with her blood. Syanna and Horace grabbed her by the arms and legs, lifting her off of Resilda and Faloanthír, setting her down in the larger chamber. Three large gashes had been torn into her neck and throat, and she gurgled occasionally as she spit up blood.

Keira was standing above her, uttering an incantation. But nothing happened.

“Damn,” she said, breathless. “I don’t have enough power left to help her.”

“Then what good are you?!” shouted Horace, letting rage overcome his other emotions.

“I’m not the only one with magical talent,” she replied calmly, looking at Resilda. “Come here, please. She needs your help.”

Mutely, Resilda stepped over to Mistle’s bleeding form, looking wide-eyed at Keira.

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “You can save her, but you must use just enough flame to cauterize the wound without causing further damage.” She put a hand on her shoulder. “You can do this.”

Reeling back, the young pyromancer shook her head, her eyes filled with fear and doubt.

“I know you have trouble controlling your power,” she continued. “But if you don’t do this, she’ll die.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Faloanthír. “The blood is inside her lungs. She’ll drown soon.”

Horace threw a broken shelf across the room. “What are you waiting for?! Fucking do something!”

Syanna, having watched the whole exchange, raised a finger. “Wait.”

Turning her head to the side, Mistle expelled a gout of blood from her mouth, and they watched as the wounds began to seal up on their own. Her breaths became fuller and deeper, and within a minute the blood was the only sign that she had been wounded at all. Blinking, she opened her eyes to find all of them staring down at her.

“What?”

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit!” Ciri blinked across the cavern to a small ledge a few feet above the floor, trying to avoid the swarm. Lambert was alternating between Quen and Igni, burning the creatures before retreating behind a shield, a strategy which only lasted until their mother leaped across the room, slamming down with enough force to shake the walls. He rolled away as she swiped at him, shrieking in fury.

The distribution of foes in the room made it difficult for either of them to fall back on their usual tactics, having to move constantly to avoid being swarmed or crushed. Ciri teleported above and behind the spider queen and slashed downward, but she was faster, ducking to the side and causing her to careen towards the floor. Ciri disappeared again, then reappeared next to Lambert.

“Any ideas?”

“Don’t stop swinging.”

“Right.”

Moving their swords in tight, elliptical arcs, they began carving through the spider hatchlings without letting them get too close. Lambert suffered the occasional bite, but his witcher physique allowed him to largely shrug them off, while Ciri was surrounded by magical flames that incinerated any that dared get close.

The mother hurtled across the room again, landing between them as they both dove out of the way. Ciri blinked out of existence for a moment before appearing above her, and landed a hit. The large spider creature screeched in pain, but the wound sealed almost immediately, and Ciri had to teleport out of the way as she slashed behind her.

Lambert turned another cluster to ash, though the Igni sign grew weaker each time he used it. He was drawing on the last reserves of his power, and since he wasn’t a true spellcaster, he could only keep up that strategy for so long. So he resorted to bombs.

A group of spider hatchlings exploded in a blast of grapeshot, but more kept coming. Dozens of them swarmed, and now larger spiders had started entering the room, which weren’t freshly hatched and were therefore smart enough to avoid the tricks that worked on their brethren.

Fear and revulsion had given way to pure, unbridled anger, and the flames surrounding Ciri began to glow even brighter. Shouting her rage at a swarm in front of her, the fire surged forward and immolated a sizeable portion of them, allowing her an opening to cut one of the larger ones in half.

By this point Ciri’s pupils had turned pure white, the Elder Blood guiding her as she slashed with reckless abandon, teleporting about in a mad frenzy.

Lambert fought with more control, but didn’t manage to carve quite as much of a swathe through the horde, which just kept coming. By now there were hundreds of them, pouring in from all directions. The spider queen leaped high in the air, firing a web out of her spinneret to swing from the ceiling, reaching for him with her still human arm. He ducked, slicing up at her as she passed, and managed to sever a leg.

She howled in pain, and the swarm grew more aggressive, charging in faster and meeting their deaths as the witcher and witcheress continued to mow them down. But the sweat was building, and even witchers got fatigue. He wasn’t exhausted yet, but there seemed to be no end to the swarm. The carcasses piled higher, and if this continued for much longer there wouldn’t be any room to stand, even in a cavern this large.

An explosion of green light caught his attention as the flames surrounding Ciri flared again, annihilating everything around her. He’d heard the legends of the Elder Blood, but even with his up close and personal experience earlier, she continued to defy all his expectations.

But even her power had limits.

Ciri was so focused on the horde surrounding her that she failed to notice a large boulder thrown from behind until it clipped her shoulder and wrenched it out of its socket, then the momentum carried her to the ground. The flames died and she shrieked in pain, clutching her dislocated arm. The spider queen surged up from behind her and began to wrap her in a web, while her sword clattered to the ground.

Unable to reach her, Lambert struggled through the horde, hurling bombs and signs, and swinging his sword like there was no tomorrow. But no matter how many fell, more took their place.

While Ciri screamed, the spider queen extended a long, tentacle-like appendage, and shoved it inside her mouth.

* * *

A howl echoed behind Erend as he dashed towards the village, towards his remaining men. Perhaps out here, where their weapons would be more useful, they could keep the terrible creature at bay. But he had heard the legends. Only silver could stop this beast.

How fortunate, then, that the ealdorman had such a gaudy collection of jewelry.

The werewolf was gaining, the wound in his chest glowing brightly as it crackled like crimson lightning. He was close enough to the village that he could see people running and screaming, and he retained enough presence of mind to duck under a heavy swipe from the creature, transitioning into a forward roll. He was almost to the ealdorman’s hut, fending off his pursuer with his sword as best he could. The steel bounced harmlessly off the thick hide, and Erend narrowly avoided his bites and slashes.

“Dietrich!” he shouted through the window, praying they heard him. “Come to my aid! And bring silver!”

Without confirming that his words had been heard, he turned to engage the creature again, only for his sword to be knocked from his hands. He felt a heavy thud against his chest, followed by the air escaping his lungs. As he landed on his back, he saw the dark shape above him, and watched as the werewolf reared back to strike.

A shriek sounded from his left, sounding for all the world like an enormous bat. An equally dark figure, moving too fast for his eyes to properly register, slammed into the werewolf, tackling him to the side, out of view.

His head grew light, and at that moment Erend realized how hard it was to breathe on account of his ribs piercing his left lung. That was his last thought before the world went black.

* * *

“What’s going on out there?”

Uriah Stonefeldt was glancing all about the room in a panic, trying to catch any sort of glimpse through the window. Dietrich stood dispassionately above him.

“Quiet,” he ordered. “Your silver. Give it to me.”

“Yes, of course!” he said, not risking any further injury. The large Nilfgaardian collected all traces of the precious metal, and stepped out into the night.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he warned before the door slammed.

Grabbing the key, he locked the door and retreated back to his chair.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said, grinning smugly.

* * *

“What the fuck?” Sheana stood up to get a better view, watching the two silhouetted shapes as they brawled through the trees. She only caught a glimpse of them in the moonlight, as well as the torches surrounding the village. Mostly, however, she saw what they left behind, trampling over the foliage and carving a trail through the woods.

Stephanos was hurled through the air, maybe fifty meters or so, and Sheana saw a cloud of dirt explode upward as he landed roughly and slid along the ground, carving a crater into the earth. The other creature was upon him, disappearing into mist before rematerializing behind the werewolf, lifting him off his feet and chokeslamming him into the ground.

From this distance, Sheana could make out the shape a little better, but shook her head, fearing that her eyes were deceiving her. The other creature had large, leathery wings and long claws, and was not only going toe to toe with a werewolf, but was tossing Stephanos around like a ragdoll. It screeched, and she covered her ears to block out the pain.

Howling loudly, Stephanos tackled the creature into the nearest tree, biting into its neck. Emitting another shriek, the large bat disappeared in a puff of mist once more, then drop-kicked the werewolf through the tree, which toppled with a loud crash.

Sheana watched in horror as Stephanos continued to rage. She had seen him transform before; seen him shred guards into ribbons and mutilate anyone who wasn’t willing to cooperate with the Rats’ demands. But she’d never seen him so truly out of control as the beast before her. Were it not for this other, more powerful creature, he would likely have unleashed that fury on the village.

The man who introduced himself as Gaunter O’Dimm had disappeared, and Sheana clung to the tree trunk as she did her best to stay out of sight. It was all she could do, save pray to gods that she had never believed in. The thought she kept coming around to, like a lost traveler moving in circles through the woods, was how none of this would have happened if not for the actions she’d taken.

She heard movement from the hut, and saw Horace and Faloanthír exit quietly, crouched low and taking in the night. They moved forward, and the rest of the Rats followed. She convinced her legs to carry her to them, where she threw her arms around Mistle from behind.

“Thank the gods you’re safe!” she whispered. “We need to get out of here!”

“Not yet,” said Mistle. “There’s a werewolf on the loose, and it’s not safe to move at night anyway. Besides, Ciri and the Witcher still haven’t returned.” She squinted, placing a hand above her eyes and leaning forward. “What is that?”

Stephanos flew towards them in a high arc, crashing down some twenty meters in front of them. The other creature followed soon after, landing on top of him and pinning him to the ground. Their hands went to their weapons, but none of them moved forward yet. A thick, dark mist emerged from the ground, wrapping around the werewolf’s ankles and wrists. The other creature began to shrink, transforming into a thin, pale man with gray hair, bloodshot eyes, and long, sharp teeth.

Syanna’s eyes widened, and she took a step back. “No way.”

* * *

“Get away from her you BITCH!” Lambert screamed as he carved his way through the spiders. They had stopped pouring in quite so rapidly, and he could see an end to them. But there were still too many between him and the spider queen, who currently held Ciri between her legs, wrapped up in webbing.

The long, fleshy appendage pulsed as she force-fed the ashen haired witcher, and Ciri’s belly began to swell beneath the webs. Ciri had given up on screaming, and could hardly even breathe as the only thing passing down her throat was a constant stream of spider eggs. The spider queen smiled gleefully, stroking her face with the back of her human hand.

“That’s it, darling. You’ll replace all the little babies you slaughtered today. And so will your friend.”

“Mmmph!”

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

Lambert slashed through one of the larger spiders, rushing forward through the opening. He made it most of the way there, but was cut off by the swarm, which converged around him once more. A few of them began to pile atop him, and he continued to swing as best he could, but it was only a matter of time before he was overwhelmed.

The spider queen rubbed a hand along Ciri’s distended belly, chuckling as her prey continued to squirm and gag, helpless to stop the onslaught. “I know what you came here for,” she said sweetly. “I know what you hoped to find. None of that matters now. But don’t worry! You’ll come to enjoy our time together.”

Mascara had run completely down her face, and Ciri’s body slackened as the webs grew tighter around her. A long, narrow tongue ran up her left cheek, and the spider queen continued to laugh mercilessly.

Lambert’s sword dropped, and he fell to the floor as the spider hatchlings finally overcame him. He was still hurling them off of his body, but found it impossible to gain any ground. His bombs were exhausted, as were his signs. His head disappeared beneath the swarm, and Ciri tried in vain to scream.

* * *

The Rats stared curiously at the sight before them. Stephanos was still restrained by the mysterious dark mist, while what had moments before been a giant bat creature stood over him, rooting through his bag.

Producing a vial filled with bright green liquid, Regis held up a hand. “Stand back, please.”

Stephanos continued to struggle, but found it impossible to rise. The vampire forced the contents of the vial down his gullet, and he began to seize, before growing still entirely. A breathless moment passed as they stared.

“What did you do to him?” demanded Mistle, stomping forward.

“Helped him, I hope. We shall see in a minute.”

“If you did anything to—”

“What I did,” he said, calmly and deliberately, “was prevent him from taking out his fury on the nearby village. Don’t worry, he isn’t dead. The concoction just needs time to do its work.”

Horace had drawn his bow and aimed it at the vampire, shaking with fear. Regis stood there with no expression whatsoever.

Syanna turned to the rest of them and shook her head. “Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”

“First you happen upon us when Ciri wouldn’t wake up,” said Mistle. “And now we meet again. That’s not a coincidence.”

“A reasonable conclusion. I assure you, however, that my intent is merely to help.”

“Then why does he lie still?”

“Because…” he trailed off, looking at the village. “Oh dear.”

A small mob had formed, with torches, pitchforks, and other improvised weapons, which was making its way in their direction. Regis adjusted the strap of his bag, and his eyes narrowed slightly. From this distance, they were recognizable only as a crowd, their silhouettes brought together into a larger whole by the surrounding darkness.

Sheana blinked. “What are they doing?”

“I dare say they mean to hunt themselves a werewolf,” said Regis, shrugging. “If you want him to live, you must follow my instructions exactly.”

Horace opened his mouth to object, but Mistle silenced him with a gesture.

“We’re listening.”

* * *

The worst part of having a stomach full of spider eggs was the pain. Her body was literally being stretched to its limits, and if this continued for much longer, things would begin to tear that should not tear. Vomit trickled down the sides of her mouth, her body having failed to expel the invasion. The world was growing darker as she found it harder to breathe, and Ciri’s eyes began to flutter.

“That’s it,” the spider queen said soothingly. “It’s almost over. Just relax.”

Part of her wanted to listen. To just submit if it meant an end to the struggle. An end to the pain that had become the only thing on which she could focus. Something she would do anything to be rid of. Whatever she was before was ceasing to matter, replaced by cold oblivion.

Something flared from deep within her, and reality reasserted itself.

‘ _No. This is not how it ends._ ’

Ciri’s eyes hardened into a glare, and she began to glow.

The fire burned away the webbing, and the spider queen recoiled, hissing in pain. Ciri dropped to the ground, disappearing in a puff of green light just before she landed. Instead, a pile of unhatched eggs splattered against the stone.

“NO!”

“Did you really think I would resign myself to that fate?” asked Ciri as she reappeared, no longer swollen with eggs. “After seeing everything I can do, did you really imagine this would end well for you?”

She was clutching her dislocated shoulder, limping slowly towards her sword.

“DIE!” She leaped towards her, but Ciri was already gone, already behind her, the sword already in her hand.

By this time Lambert had emerged from the pile and reclaimed his sword, knocking back a group of spider hatchlings with the sign of Aard. Ciri continued moving forward.

“Do you have the slightest idea how many people have gone through the same thought process as you?” she asked. “Who thought of me as just another vessel to impregnate, to use my offspring for their own ends, as if I didn’t have a say in the matter?”

A giant spider leg swung towards her, but she was no longer there. She reappeared on the other side of her adversary.

“Do you know how many of those people are dead now?”

The creature snarled, swiping after her again, and meeting with the same result.

“I have not come this far to meet my fate here,” she said through gritted teeth. “But you? Your story ends. Tonight.”

The spider queen laughed. “You seem confident for someone who can barely move.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“What?”

Sheathing the sword on her back, Ciri closed her eyes and began to levitate off the floor. The flames grew more intense, wreathing her in their protective glow. When she opened her eyes again, the pupils were gone, replaced by white hot fury.

“RRRRAAAAAAHHHH!” The spider queen leapt at her once more, but only got halfway. A torrent of green flames issued forth, burning a hole through her torso and continuing through the rest of her body, until she died a screaming, charred mess. The flames slowly faded, and Ciri floated gently to the ground.

Lambert pinned the final spider to the ground with his sword, yanking it out as it died. A moment passed before Ciri spoke.

“Well that sucked.”

* * *

Dashing from the house carrying a handful of various silver pieces of jewelry, Dietrich reached his commander, finding him unconscious, lying on his back with blood pooling on the ground beneath him. He glanced around, but saw no immediate threat. A mob of peasants had struck out from the village, carrying torches and various improvised weapons, but none of them had come near.

Erend was still breathing, though it was somewhat shallow. Frowning, Dietrich considered the situation. The others had not returned, and if the commander was in this sort of shape, it was unlikely that they had fared any better. Whatever mission they had come here to execute had now clearly been botched beyond salvation.

Besides which, he had heard the howling earlier, and knew that the Pereplut swamp was nearby. He did not remember most of his childhood, but the lessons his grandmother had imparted regarding the dangers of the woods had never disappeared from his mind. They were dealing with forces too great to be underestimated, and none of this was worth dying over.

Dropping the silver, he walked back to the village and retrieved a  cart, then dragged it back to Erend and set him upon it. There was a garrison ten miles away, where they could regroup and get the commander the medical attention he needed.

Hitching a horse to the wagon, he rode off into the night.

* * *

“How on earth are you carrying him?” asked Sheana as Regis easily walked alongside them with a werewolf twice his size slung across both shoulders. “And what are you?”

“I’d think that would be obvious.”

“He’s a higher vampire,” said Syanna. “Like the one I told you about.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me about the dear friend of mine that you got killed.”

“Hey, I wanted to make peace with Dettlaff just as much as you did,” she retorted, glaring. “He died because he tried to kill me. I wasn’t the one who tore out his throat. That was you.”

“And if you hadn’t manipulated him just to get revenge for petty slights that happened when you were a child, none of us would have been in that position.”

“Petty? I was thrown out into the woods to starve!”

“And I was melted into paste, left to face cold oblivion in the ruins of a forgotten castle, until Dettlaff found me and revived me, at no small cost of his own blood. Do not think that the way you were treated justifies anything you did. Through your actions you damned a soul who might have otherwise found redemption.”

“Dettlaff damned himself. If you believed otherwise you wouldn’t have finished him off.”

“This is all fascinating,” said Mistle. “But that mob will soon be close enough to hear us.”

“Fine,” they said in unison, for once agreeing on something.

* * *

Uriah Stonefeldt hissed in pain as he put his arm in a makeshift sling, torn from some other garment. He sat curled in his chair, staring warily at the door as he trembled.

From just outside, he heard a sharp and piercing whistle, forming out the notes of a sinister melody that he’d heard once before. He drew his knees closer to his chest, not taking his eyes off the door.

“Go away,” he muttered. “Go away, go away go away go away…”

On its own, the lock undid itself, and the knob began to turn. He backed further into the chair, until there was nowhere left to go. The door opened slowly, and he watched breathlessly as it revealed…

Nothing.

Sighing with relief, he stood up and walked over, closing the door and locking it once more. He turned around, then fell to the ground with a yell.

Sitting in the chair, wearing a smile crueler than death itself, sat a bald man wearing a yellow tunic with blue tights, hands folded over his lap. Uriah pointed and quaked, finally convincing his mouth to form words again.

“You!”

“Yes,” said Gaunter O’Dimm, his smile growing wider. “Me.”

* * *

“Hold still,” said Lambert, wrapping his hands around Ciri’s dislocated arm. “We need to reset this before it swells too much.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Not with the way you keep moving.”

“For your information I’m finding it very hard to stand up straight right now.”

“Why? She didn’t stick it up your—”

“Not the bloody time, Lambert!”

She braced herself up against one of the walls to the cave, while he took a deep breath before trying to wrench the arm back into its socket. Ciri shrieked, falling to her knees. The arm hung limply, still out of place.

“Damn it!”

“I said hold still,” he told her. “Get back up; let’s try it again.”

She chuckled. “That’s what you always told me when I fell off the pendulum.” She winced as she stood up again. “I healed so quickly in those days.”

“Yep, getting old sucks. Try not to move this time.”

“I shall give it my all,” she said flatly.

He wrenched her arm upwards once more, and again she screamed, but this time it was accompanied by an audible pop. Lowering the arm under her own power, she swung it gingerly back and forth, then rubbed her swollen shoulder.

“Thanks.”

He nodded. “Don’t mention it. What now?”

“We still have to find—”

“The witch?”

They both spun around, to see a woman standing behind them. She wore strange, foreign clothing, and her deep mahogany skin glowed in the moonlight. She stared at them with a confident smile.

“Who are you?”

The smile grew wider. “The one you seek. Some call me a witch, but in truth I’m more of a storyteller.” She clasped her hands together.

“You can call me Scheherazade.”

* * *

Scrambling back until the door stopped him from traveling any further, Uriah stared in horror at the being before him, who continued to smile sinisterly.

“Not you!” he shouted, still cowering. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“What gave you that impression?”

“You told me if I made a sacrifice to you, you would grant my wish and I would be forever safe,” he said. “But you haven’t kept that promise! First I was threatened by a witcher and that horrible girl, then the damn army comes here and tortures me within an inch of my life!”

“And you consider this to be my fault?”

“I…” He paused, hesitating. “Yes! Yes, this has to be your doing! I was fine for two years, and now you show up again just when everything is going wrong! That can’t be a coincidence!”

The smile grew wider and more evil. “Trouble and I do often happen to be in the same place. But really, you brought this upon yourself. From the moment you posted that notice.”

“How is that?”

“You had every opportunity to see this coming,” said Gaunter O’Dimm, his mouth twisted into a cold sneer. “The mark on the girl’s face—did you even notice it? I told you two years ago the help I gave you would have its price.”

“You deceived me!” shouted Uriah, pointing accusingly. “I wished for you to make me a rich man! I didn’t ask to be a lonely man, nor a paranoid man. I never asked for all this trouble!”

“Oh, but you _did_.” He leaned forward, and something dangerous flashed behind his eyes. “The riches you desired had to come from somewhere. So I sent you a group of young bandits who were more than happy to pay you for shelter, and you were just as eager to take their money. I didn’t force you to cloister yourself away from the rest of the village. You did that all on your own.”

Clutching his head, the ealdorman paced back and forth. “But it isn’t fair! There were ways of getting me that money that wouldn’t have landed me in this situation!”

“Yet I didn’t see you complaining when everything was going your way,” he replied. “You don’t get to reap the benefits of the service I provide and then question the manner in which I provide it. In the end the cost would have been the same, so it hardly matters.”

“It matters to me!”

He only smirked.

“So why are you here?”

“You mean you haven’t guessed?” He stood, ambling closer to the cowering ealdorman. “You promised me something very precious when last we spoke. It’s time to pay up.”

“But… the sacrifice! You said my debt would be paid!”

“So long as you never attempted to go back on your promise,” he said. “But you did.”

“When?”

“Today, in fact.” He retrieved a parchment from one of his bags and held it up for him to see. “I told you: you never should have posted that notice.”

* * *

“Thank you for dealing with her,” said Scheherazade, staring down at the smoldering remains of the spider queen. “She was becoming a problem.”

Ciri frowned. “Who was she?”

“Her name was Lillian,” she answered. “But that’s less important than her last name.”

“Which is?”

“Stonefeldt.”

A moment passed, during which Ciri and Lambert exchanged a glance.

“She came to me for help two years ago,” she continued. “Someone had cursed her to transform into what you fought. In the beginning it only happened during a full moon, but she was slowly losing control. I gave her an amulet to control it, but ultimately that only exacerbated the problem.”

Lambert crossed his arms, kicking a spider corpse across the chamber. “How so?”

“Her mind was already broken by the time she found me. It was different for your werewolf friend. Don’t worry about him, by the way. Sometimes things have a way of working themselves out.”

“But not in her case?” asked Ciri.

She shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. You putting an end to her prevented this from happening to others. And you put her out of her misery. Now the girl she used to be can rest in peace.”

“What a waste.” Ciri shook her head. “Who would turn someone into… this?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that.” Scheherazade turned around and began to stare at the moon. “When you met with the ealdorman earlier, he told you his daughter disappeared two years ago. Isn’t there something else that happened right around that time?”

She gasped. “Oh no.”

The woman nodded sagely, turning to face her again. “That’s the saddest part. She wasn’t even the one who made the wish. She was just collateral damage.”

* * *

“What has that got to do with anything?” Uriah shouted, gesturing angrily at the parchment. “It’s just a few missing villagers, something I only put up to silence the rabble-rousers! There probably isn’t even a monster!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he replied, tucking the notice away. “That sacrifice you mentioned. Do you recall my exact words?”

“Not precisely.”

“I told you that in return for safety and riches eternal, you had to sacrifice that which was most precious to you, and never seek after her again.”

Uriah closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “And I didn’t.”

“No,” he said gravely. “You did. When you posted the notice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you think I whisked your daughter away to some far-off realm? No. I kept her close by, for a rainy day. But then a few people from your village discovered her, and let’s just say that these days she doesn’t play nicely with others. She was behind your missing villagers.” He laughed. “And you really didn’t know?”

“You lie!”

Gaunter O’Dimm shook his head.

“Well how was I supposed to know? I’d have broken my promise even if I’d inquired after the monster some other way!”

“And your point is?”

“Did you send that horrible girl to me? Did you send the Witcher?” He glanced out the window. “And all that commotion outside, did you cause that too?”

“I set events in motion that led to this outcome,” he admitted, putting his hands together. “Not everything went according to plan, of course. I’d hoped the werewolf would massacre at least half your village while you cowered, praying it wouldn’t discover you as well. But it seems someone decided to ruin that part. In the end, however, I got you alone, which is all that matters.”

“You tricked me!” He pointed threateningly, but Gaunter O’Dimm was unmoved. “You set this up somehow! You wanted me to break my promise so you could get what you were after! You cheated!”

“I _never_ cheat.” He stepped closer. “I scheme, I manipulate, I stack the odds in my favor… but I don’t cheat.”

“Wait!” Uriah pleaded, dropping to his knees. “I’ll give it all back! Every last copper! You can take it all back!”

Gaunter O’Dimm produced another parchment, a contract written in blood, and held it up for him to see. It burst into flames, then disappeared.

“I gave you what you wished for,” he declared, reaching out towards him. “And now, your soul is _mine_!”

* * *

By now the Rats, plus Keira, Syanna and Regis, had gone far enough into the woods that they could barely see the torches, which were heading off in a different direction. The vampire set Stephanos gently on the ground, where he continued to lay still.

“How long does it take this concoction of yours to work?” asked Mistle. “From the looks of it, he’s just dead.”

“I assure you, he is still breathing.”

“That’s not always the same thing as being alive.”

He nodded sagely. “An interesting point of view, especially to someone of my species.”

“What’s in it, anyway?”

“Various ingredients, among them mandrake, hemlock, and deadly nightshade. All poisons that would kill an ordinary man, but which will force an immune response from his system that will short circuit his transformation and revert him to human form. I’ve also added a tonic to remove the silver shavings that are still in his bloodstream.”

“Will it cure him?”

“Unfortunately, his curse is beyond my ability to lift. But this will allow his wounds to heal, and won’t require him to wear that amulet to regulate the curse. He’ll have full control over his transformation when he wakes up.”

She blinked at him. “How did you know about the amulet?”

“You’re asking an ancient vampire who can observe all of you without being detected how he knows something so trivial? Do give me some credit.”

Keira had sat down, leaning against a tree, while Horace, Faloanthír, Sheana, and Resilda huddled together a few meters off. Syanna, Mistle, and Regis stood vigil over the werewolf.

“For what it’s worth,” said Syanna a few minutes later. “I am sorry about Dettlaff.”

He scoffed. “As always, your conscience gets to you too late.”

“I don’t live as long as you do,” she said, shrugging. “And I know I’m not one to talk about holding grudges. But the fact that you’re here helping means something. And Ciri isn’t even here this time.”

“You mistake my motives,” he said. “A village full of people doesn’t deserve to die just because none of you could help him keep his curse under control.”

Mistle frowned. “Most people would use that logic to justify killing him. Yet you claim to be saving him.”

“We shall see which of those comes to pass.”

“Indeed we shall.”

* * *

“Ciri, what is she talking about?”

“Part of that long story,” she answered. “I’ll explain later.”

“You’d fucking better.”

“I’ll be going now,” said Scheherazade, walking deeper into the cavern. “But before I do, a word of advice: the way you view your own reflection is different from how others see you. The truest revelations are best witnessed through the eyes of those closest to you.”

Furrowing her brow, Ciri frowned. “What does that—”

But she was already gone.

Lambert rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Today is officially the worst.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

She glared hard at the remains of Lillian Stonefeldt. “To be honest, I’d prefer it if we never spoke of this again.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Shall we?” she asked, nodding towards the exit.

“In a minute. I have something for you first.” Fishing around in one of his pouches, he extended his closed hand towards her.

She reached out, and he deposited something into her hands. Her eyes went wide, and she held it up with both hands to examine it.

“Ran into Geralt a while back,” he said. “He told me you lost that when you went to Bald Mountain. Turns out Keira had some unfinished business with the Crones as well, so we tracked the last of them down and, well…”

Ciri rushed forward and embraced him in a hug, Vesemir’s medallion dangling from her fingers. Tears streamed down her face, and they stood there like that for a minute before separating.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, putting it around her neck. “But why not keep it for yourself?”

Lambert shrugged. “I only ever wanted the old man’s sword. Well, his hat too. The medallion doesn’t mean that much to me. But I know how important it is to you. It’s like—”

“A piece of my heart,” she muttered.

He blinked. “Yeah.” They stood there awkwardly for a few moments. “You ready to go?”

She nodded, grabbing his hand. They disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the cavern behind.

* * *

After standing there for what felt like an eternity, they watched as Stephanos began to stir once more, his body shrinking as he reverted to human form. He blinked his eyes open, staring up at them.

“What happened?” he asked before being swarmed by his companions, save Mistle. Keira, Syanna, and Regis simply watched as well.

Syanna chuckled. Regis glanced at her sideways. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just surprised this had a happy ending, is all. Gods know we don’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps not. But who listens to the gods anyway?”

“Take care of yourself, vampire.”

“I shall try. Farewell.” With that, he turned to mist, disappearing into the night.

It was silent for several moments, until a flash of green light signaled the return of Ciri and Lambert, along with both of their horses.

“Ciri!” Mistle was upon her as soon as she dismounted, and Ciri winced, clutching her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“So am I.” She glanced over to Stephanos. “Good. I was worried I’d done all of this for nothing.”

Mistle laughed. “Never.”

Meanwhile, Lambert had dismounted and walked over to Keira, who hadn’t even stood. “What? I don’t get a hero’s welcome?”

“You shall receive one when I become able to stand again. Until then I believe I have thoroughly earned a good night’s rest.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Let’s move,” said Mistle. “It’s still not safe out here.”

They nodded and prepared to leave. Lambert helped Keira up into the saddle, while Horace and Faloanthír helped Stephanos walk. After making a quick stop back at the hut, they ventured back to the ealdorman’s house, for one last order of business.

* * *

Lambert stood inside the ruined doorframe, the door itself having been kicked across the room. He glared at the space with frustration, wearing a scowl on his scarred face.

“How did I know he wouldn’t be here?”

“The Nilfgaardians must have taken him somewhere,” said Syanna. “That would explain why the valuables were left behind.”

Ciri stared over the space, squinting. She kneeled down, rubbing a few pieces of ash between her fingers. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

They both turned to look at her. Mistle entered the room as well, while the others remained out of sight. Syanna took a closer look at the ash as well.

“What do you mean?”

“We found the witch,” she explained. “She told us the monster behind the missing villagers, the same monster Lambert and I slew, was the ealdorman’s daughter, whom he claimed to have lost in the swamp two years ago.”

She looked up to Mistle. “Am I correct in thinking that’s right about the time you first came here?”

Mistle nodded. “We offered him a share of our loot in exchange for shelter. I knew his daughter had gone missing, but none of us cared. Are you saying it’s related?”

“Yes. The monster we encountered was like nothing any of us have ever seen before. Her curse was entirely unique. There’s someone we all know who has a habit of making creatures like that.”

Syanna and Mistle looked back at her with understanding, but Lambert squinted and cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”

Standing up, Ciri looked at him gravely. “His name is Gaunter O’Dimm. And he’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with.”

“This part of that long story?”

“It is. I promise to tell it to you once we get to safety.”

“In the meantime…” said Mistle, peeking her head out the door. “Rats! Get in here and grab everything that isn’t nailed down!”

Lambert said nothing, but looked at Ciri, who sent a shrug his way, before both of them began following the order.

When the Rats had taken as much as they could carry, they left the hut behind and rode out into the woods, to wherever the night may take them.

* * *

Blue mist gathered and pooled among the underbrush, and Regis reasserted his physical form behind a large tree, dusting off his robes. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the air, standing still for the moment, not even turning around to address the person behind him.

“Greetings, Storyteller.”

“Good evening, Regis. You’ve done well.”

“I’ve done what’s necessary. You know my thoughts on resolving conflicts with violence.”

Behind him, Scheherazade smiled. “Indeed. But thanks to you, the stories of those villagers will continue.”

“As will Cirilla’s, I presume?”

“The Man of Glass won’t let her tale end until he has gotten what he’s after,” she said. “So don’t fret. I have another matter for you to attend.”

He nodded. “So long as it serves the same goal.”

“It does. It even involves another inheritor of the Elder Blood.”

That got Regis to turn around. “Another one?”

“Newly discovered, and vital to our plans. Make sure no harm befalls her as she travels deeper into the shadows. The ravens will guide you to her.”

He nodded. “Very well. One more question, before I go. How did you know stabilizing the curse would work? I happen to know a witcher who would be hard pressed to come up with a solution that clean.”

Smiling, Scheherazade glanced up at the moon. “It’s simple. I had faith. You vampires know blood magic better than anybody.”

“True indeed, but I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything.”

“What’s a good story without a little mystery? Besides, something tells me you’ve figured it out already.”

He narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

“Farewell for now, Regis. I’ll be in touch.”

And then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of this story arc, which took me longer than I originally thought. I really only wanted to bring Lambert and Keira into the mix, and somehow it became about Ciri confronting another source of trauma from her past. The sexual nature of most of the villains' plans for her in the books has always kind of bothered me, and I wanted to approach it in a way that didn't take away her agency as a character.
> 
> How that translated into an oviposition monster... I honestly have no clue. But my portrayal of it falls firmly on the side of horror, not fetishization, so I'm satisfied with the end result. We'll be shifting perspective again in a couple of weeks, and I look forward to seeing you all then.


	24. Fourth Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're doing the interlude thing again. That means three shorter than usual chapters featuring characters who will play a major role in the upcoming story arc. They're a nice means of giving the story a breather. Enjoy.

There were no rats in the prison cell, so the cold gnawed at her bones instead. She had tried to make herself warm, but there was nothing to burn and any spell she uttered was sundered before it ever left her lips. At first she had suspected the walls were lined with dimeritium, but later discovered that her magic was being countered by a strong anti-magic barrier surrounding the cell. Her teeth chattered as she drew her knees closer, careful not to touch her cold hands to her naked flesh, since that would make it even worse.

They had stripped literally everything from her, even the clothes on her back. She was served one meal a day, a strange, watery meat that was practically tasteless, which kept her just nourished enough not to starve. Still, it was better than the witch hunters had treated her. Her captors didn’t bother with traditional torture methods, leaving her to rot naked in a cell that was just cold enough to make concentrating difficult, but not enough to truly freeze.

At least bodily waste wasn’t an issue, since whatever she emitted was magically siphoned away by the same barrier that prevented her from casting any spells on her own. Most prisons would have let her drown in her own filth, but apparently this place had different standards. Then again, this wasn’t a prison from her world.

Triss Merigold didn’t know what she had expected, travelling to a place filled with people who had every reason to despise her for what she had contributed to. She had been grabbed within minutes of appearing in Tir Ná Lia, brought before an elf named Ge’els, and sentenced to prison for her role in assassinating their former leader.

Some wanted to bind her into service, while others thought they should just cut off her head and be done with it. In the end she had wound up here, alone in the cold.

“Wonder if this wasn’t his plan all along,” she muttered, still cursing the night she heard the name Gaunter O’Dimm. She had no idea how much time had passed since then. It felt like months, possibly even a year. Too late to help Ciri. Or anybody.

But Triss would not die here. Not without a fight at least.

A knock sounded from outside her cell. She didn’t even bother looking up.

“Go away.”

There was no response, and all was quiet. She huffed, then curled up on the hard stone floor, still shivering.

Another knock.

“I said go away!”

Again, silence.

Triss had nearly convinced her quivering body to fall asleep when she heard the third knock. This time she stood, her modesty abandoned long ago, and charged up to the door, slamming her fist against it. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

A small panel slid to the side, and she saw a familiar pair of cold blue eyes staring through.

“Hello, Miss Merigold,” the elf greeted. “I understand you wished to speak with me.”

The fire that welled up from within her drove the cold away, and Triss clenched her fists at her sides.

“You show up _now_? After I’ve been asking to talk to you for months? You’ve got some fucking nerve!”

“I apologize. I’ve only just managed to secure your release. Time moves differently in this place.”

“RAGGGH!” she turned to the side and punched a wall, her hand so numb she didn’t even feel her knuckles split open. She stood there breathing deeply for over a minute.

“Am I to understand you no longer have something to tell me?”

She whirled to face him again. “If this wasn’t about something absolutely crucial, I’d tell you to fuck right off. But I happen to need your help. It’s about Ciri.”

“I know,” said Avallac’h. “I foresaw your arrival and have been preparing for it.”

Triss stood there for several moments, one eye twitching as something inside her mind snapped. “Then why the FUCK have I been in here for so long?!”

He stood there staring at her, unmoved. “You would not believe the effort it took for me to secure your release from this place. Especially given that I helped mastermind the plot for which you were imprisoned. Ultimately I was able to appeal to Ge’els’ sense of justice. He only threw you in here because he feared what the other Aen Elle might do to you if you were allowed to walk around freely.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him, then,” she said, raising her bloodied fist. “Do you have any idea what it’s like in here?”

“In point of fact, I do. I once spent seventy-five years in a cell just like yours.”

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“A deed committed when I was younger, and more foolish,” he answered. “That is all I will reveal on the matter. For now, you have been released into my custody. But you must give your word that you will not vent your frustrations on anybody on your way out. If you do, they will kill you where you stand.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, glaring. “I’ll have plenty of time to work it out on you later.”

“I suppose that will be good enough.” He nodded to someone out of her sight, and the door opened. Avallac’h covered her with a blanket and uttered a brief spell, after which she felt warmth return to her. “Now let us be on our way. We have much to discuss.”


	25. Fifth Interlude

Being back home was… boring.

Nilfgaard was a place that offered a very refined, cultural experience, if such a thing was what one desired. The man sitting behind his desk, going over reports that detailed things like a marginal increase in grain prices, the projected revenue from each vassal state, and minor outbreaks of Catriona inching ever closer to the heart of the Empire, did not value such a pretentious lifestyle.

It was true that Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, Conqueror of the Northern Realms, _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ , The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes, was capable of impeccable decorum. One had to be, in his position. It was like a suit of armor: useful for keeping one alive, but hardly comfortable when worn for long periods of time. And he had been wearing his armor for far too long.

As much as a man of his stature should not crave war, he missed it greatly. Everything was more simple when one’s opponents were from other lands and could be relied upon to hate you in interesting ways. Political battles were far less stimulating, and his opponents were so much easier to crush.

There were occasional bandit troubles, of course. It should have been easier to deal with now that the war was over, but most of the standing army had returned to whatever professions they had held before being called upon to serve the Empire. In most places, the number of guards had actually been reduced. A large military presence during peacetime only cost more money.

Besides which, it was often more pragmatic to reach agreements with the larger hanses and let them do the work of keeping the smaller ones in order, only taking action when they stepped too far out of line to be ignored. It was only when the nobility and merchant guilds started complaining that the army was obligated to do something about it. As always, the poor either suffered at their hands or joined a gang themselves.

But that was only one problem among dozens, which came with trying to salvage a post-war economy on top of all the domestic issues he’d had to set aside for the sake of his Northern campaigns. Individually, the problems were not impossible to solve, but the small things added up to the point where he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in several months. But then that wasn’t exactly new.

A knock sounded at the door of his study, and he sighed, putting away the quill and leaning back in his chair.

“Enter.”

Chamberlain Mererid obeyed, opening the door and entering the room with a swift, formal bow. “Your Imperial Majesty. I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but an important letter has just arrived.”

“You are forgiven.” In truth, the chamberlain had nothing for which to apologize. But the man’s dedication to courtly etiquette ran so deep that Emhyr had long ago abandoned the idea of disabusing him of that notion. He beckoned with his hand. “Bring it here.”

He did so, not making eye contact with the Emperor as he handed the letter over. It smelled faintly of salt, suggesting the courier had arrived by ship. The seal depicted three longboats in a red and black circle, a symbol with which he was intimately familiar.

“Has it been opened?”

“The mages have checked it for enchantments,” said Mererid. “But the seal has not been broken. The courier said it was for your eyes only.”

“Hm.” Retrieving a small dagger from one of the drawers, he slid it along the seal, cutting cleanly through it and unrolling the letter. He  took a minute to read it, and released a slight chuckle. “Well, well. I must say, this was the last thing I expected from her.”

“What is it, Your Majesty?”

“A marriage proposal,” he answered, skimming over the letter again. “From Cerys An Craite.”

“The Queen of the Skellige Isles?”

“The very same. What do you make of it?”

He bowed, his eyes beholding only the floor. “Your Majesty, I would never dare to presume…”

“I am not asking for your presumptions, merely your opinion. You may speak freely.”

“In that case, Your Majesty, it seems very much like a trap, one which ends with her cutting your throat on your wedding night. Skelligers are not to be trusted.”

Emhyr smirked. “Have you ever been to Skellige?”

“Personally? No. I was not present during your campaign there, as I was ordered to remain at the Royal Palace in Vizima.”

“I lived there for several years,” he revealed. “Before returning here to claim my throne. Whatever else you might say about them, that sort of treachery is not in their culture. They’d rather charge you head on with an axe than stab you in the back.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty, I never meant to offend…”

“You didn’t. Thank you for your input, Mererid, but I know exactly what this means.”

The Chamberlain said nothing, waiting with bated breath as he hung on the Emperor’s every word.

“Send word to the port authority, as well as the fleet,” he said. “They are to allow a royal envoy of Skelligan vessels into Nilfgaard, where Queen Cerys will be received with full diplomatic privileges. That is all. You may leave now.”

“At once, Your Majesty.” Mererid bowed and left the chamber, closing the door behind him.


	26. Sixth Interlude

Yellow lights like fireflies chased each other through the mist, which rolled in waves across an endless valley of blackened stone. Something distant bellowed, and the lights turned from yellow to red, zipping away in every direction. Her hand reached up to grasp at them, but it was a trick of perspective; in truth they were already miles away.

The sound of metal clattering together, like an immense collection of pots and pans reached her ears, not quite rhythmic but consistent enough that she could hear it approaching. Scrabbling backwards, she nestled herself into a crevice between stones, hiding and waiting for whatever it was to pass.

Roughly two minutes later, the noise stopped and she breathed more easily. She remained still, however, in case whatever it was still lurked somewhere nearby.

“You can relax. It’s not coming back.”

She shrieked and practically jumped out of her skin, glancing frantically around to find the source of the voice.

“Look up.”

She did so, and beheld a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, with deep mahogany skin and a smile on her face. She stood atop a large boulder, staff in hand, staring down at her.

“Who are you?”

“That’s a boring question. I’m no one important; just a travelling storyteller. But you can call me Scheherazade.”

“Rosa var Attre.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Rosa. I’ve been searching for you for some time.”

Rosa blinked. “You have?”

“Well, look around you. It’s not a simple task to find someone in this wasteland.”

“I suppose not. How did I get here?”

“That’s unimportant. Come and sit with me; let’s get to know one another better.”

“How am I supposed to get up there?”

In response, Scheherazade struck her staff against the ground, causing stairs to spiral around the edges of the boulder, stopping at her feet. She stared pensively at them for several moments before climbing them, then sat cross-legged in front of the woman.

“Where are we? And again, how did I get here?”

“How do we get anywhere? It’s nowhere in your world. This is a place accessible only through dreams, which you only recently started having. That’s what prevented me from finding you before.”

Rosa looked around in every direction, seeing only mist and blackened stone. “This is a dream?”

“It is and it isn’t. You got here through your dream, and when you wake you’ll return to your world. You visit many places when you dream, though most people can’t choose where they end up. That skill is reserved for a rare few.”

“Like you?”

The mysterious woman smiled. “You might say that.”

“Are you real, or just a phantom conjured by my imagination?”

“What difference does it make?”

“A rather substantial one.”

“Sadly, even if I tell you that I’m real, that doesn’t prove anything. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Rosa frowned and stared pensively at the ground. “I suppose it matters little. At least I’m not alone anymore.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“You’ve found me. But why were you looking?”

“I am here because your fate took a turn it shouldn’t have. Your thread was cut short and twisted by an anomaly known as the Elder Blood, a force which has the power to rewrite destinies—a rather bothersome trait if you ask me. This anomaly was in turn influenced by a being which pitted you against each other, for nothing more than a cheap laugh and a propensity towards causing suffering. I regret that I was unable to prevent this.”

“What are you talking about? _Who_ are you talking about?”

“How much do you remember?”

“I remember going to a ball, getting in a fight…” She squinted, struggling to recall. “And then… pain. Just pain.”

“Pain caused by the Man of Glass. Inflicted by the Child of the Elder Blood. You had the misfortune of being in her way, but know it was he who put you there.”

Rosa shook her head, not comprehending. “Who?”

“A man at the ball introduced himself to you as Gaunter O’Dimm. He persuaded you and your sister to provoke a woman known to guests of the party as Falka of Ebbing. You fought her, and you lost.”

“And now I’m here.”

“And now you’re here.”

“You mentioned fate. What was mine supposed to be?”

“That would depend largely on which choices you made. Nobody has only one destiny. Potential outcomes are constantly in flux, always competing with one another. To use a rather crude metaphor, imagine placing a dozen rats inside a barrel and then closing the lid. Once they succumb to hunger and devour each other, only one will remain. Yet you won’t know which one until you open it again.”

“Sounds like I could have met a grim fate regardless of whether or not anyone interfered.”

“True enough. The same can be said for anyone.”

“So then why do you care so much about me?”

“Because what happened to you wasn’t supposed to be one of the options. Someone dropped a cat in the barrel, and altered the course of your destiny forever. I cannot undo that. But you can still take charge of your fate, if you agree to trust me.”

Rosa shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like there’s anybody else offering to help me.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Scheherazade smiled. “Remember, the Man of Glass is not to be trifled with. Stand in his way and you will be destroyed. Yet in telling you how to go after another, he has planted the seeds of his own downfall. Look for the stars in the heavens, and do not be fooled by their reflection in the water at night.”

“What does that—“

“Wake up, Rosa var Attre.”

The world around her vanished as the mist grew thicker, until she saw only black.

“Wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the last of them. See you all in two weeks for the start of a new story arc.


	27. Wolves That Sleep Amidst The Trees

Sunrises in Toussaint were something Geralt would never get used to. In the majority of places he’d stayed over the years, the sun only served to reveal the unsightly elements that were hidden by the night. But in this small fairy tale duchy, it brought everything to life as it slowly clambered up the world’s slippery rim.

Geralt was glad Dandelion had been banished from this place. There was no telling what other poetic thoughts would enter his head if he were exposed to his friend’s influence for too long.

The first time he’d stayed in Toussaint, he had been unable to fully enjoy himself, cloistered away from the world around him and thinking only of how he was wasting time while Ciri was in danger. There were some who managed to break through that shell, like Reynart de Bois-Fresnes and Fringilla Vigo, but neither of those relationships survived.

Now that he had fully settled into southern life, sunrise meant something new.

“Master Geralt!”

It meant his students had arrived.

A gaggle of children, the oldest among them only ten years of age, ran out of the orphanage doors to greet him, where he stood ready, his hands resting atop the pommel of a wooden sword whose edge was nestled into the ground.

The whole affair had started when, as was usually the case, Yen suggested that he find something to occupy his now ample free time. There wasn’t much in the way of witcher’s work, and between them they had a sizeable fortune and a functioning vineyard, with no desire to seek any more adventures.

Yen had taken to micro-managing the business, which required some adjustment on Barnabas-Basil’s part at first. But the vineyard had prospered under her vision, and enforcing her iron will kept her busy and therefore content. When she wasn’t off in her sanctum making friends with monsters, that was.

This left Geralt somewhat restless, with nothing to do between contracts save sit around the house and wait on Yen hand and foot. Which she’d adored… for about a week, after which she reminded him that part of what made their relationship work was that they didn’t suffer from the need to never leave each other’s side.

Things had truly clicked once he discovered that the Corvo Bianco vineyard was a stone’s throw away from the La Compassion Orphanage. Despite what happened to its original occupants during the Night of Long Fangs, the same catastrophe had left many other children orphaned, and one day Yen caught them making mischief in the olive fields. In typical fashion, she had attempted to frighten them but took it too far, and the children ran screaming to their caretakers that the “wicked witch” meant to boil them alive.

Geralt had interceded, and offered to give the children something more constructive to do with their time. Thus, with the Duchess’ blessing, began the lessons in swordplay. There was another reason he wanted to keep a close eye on the orphans, but he’d told no one. Not even Yen.

“Good morning, students,” he greeted as they lined up in two rows of five. “I trust you’re ready to learn?”

“Yes, Master Geralt!”

He inclined his head and smiled ever so slightly. “Who can tell me what we learned yesterday?”

A young girl, roughly nine years old with brown hair and blue eyes raised her hand. Geralt nodded in her direction.

“We learned proper footwork and breathing, and how to dodge a blow.”

“Very good, Sofia. And what are we learning today?”

“Today we learn to spin!”

He smirked, chuckling softly. “It’s not quite spinning. You’ve all learned pirouettes already, so this should be familiar, build on the same concept. I’ll demonstrate.”

Stepping back from the group, he leapt up into the air and whirled around, landing on his left foot and extending his right leg forward as he swung down hard diagonally. Using the leftover momentum, he repeated the motion while remaining on the ground, then stood up straight and returned the sword to its original position.

“Any questions?”

A boy with blond hair and hazel eyes raised his hand, and Geralt nodded towards him. “Yes, Julian?”

“Why did you expose your back?” he asked. “The first day of training you told us never to give your opponent an opening.”

“That’s true. But sometimes you need the extra power, and there are ways of minimizing your opponent’s ability to counterattack. For instance, if you knock their weapon to the side first…” He mimed doing so with the sword. “You can follow up without fear of reprisal.” He finished by repeating the spin attack.

“Remember class,” he continued. “There’s a difference between spotting an opening, and exploiting one. The advantages and disadvantages of every movement depend largely on the situation. Can anyone give me an example of when you wouldn’t want to use this move?”

“Certainly not when you’re shoulder to shoulder with your comrades,” said Amelie, the oldest of the group, with black hair and frost-blue eyes. “You stand a chance of hitting them instead, and your enemy can lunge in quickly.”

“Very true. Speaking of which, you should all spread out more while you practice this move. I’ll be here to make sure you do it right.”

The children set about performing their task, and he paced in front of them, calling out each of their mistakes providing instructions on how to correct them. This continued for half an hour or so, before he heard footsteps behind him, along with the clanking of heavy armor.

“Captain,” he said without turning to face the man. “Nice of you to join us.”

“I was told by your servants that I might find you here,” said Damien de la Tour, Captain of the Ducal Guard. “I have a matter to discuss with you, of the utmost urgency.”

“That’s a problem then, because class has just started. Can it wait?”

“Her Illustrious Highness the Duchess has summoned you posthaste,” he elaborated. “So no, it cannot wait.”

Geralt sighed heavily. “Of course. Anything for Her Grace.”

Sofia completed another spin and looked up at him. “Are you leaving, Master?”

Glancing back and forth between her and the Captain, he nodded resignedly. “If I could make a request, Captain?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be happy to see Her Grace, but I also can’t leave my class unattended,” he said. “Would you take over for today?”

Damien stood ramrod straight, a look of outright befuddlement crossing his face. “I cannot, Sir Geralt. I have duties to attend.”

“Then attend them later. The lesson is only for another hour. Otherwise I’ll have to stay, and then I’ll have to explain to Her Grace that I was late because I just couldn’t find anyone to stand in for me.”

“I…” The Captain looked among the children, who now stared up at him with hopeful eyes. “I suppose if it’s only for an hour, I could…”

“Good.” Geralt smirked and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m off to see the Duchess.” He turned to the class. “Show Captain de la Tour your utmost respect. He’s your teacher for the rest of today’s lesson.”

“Yes, Master Geralt!” they said in unison.

With that, he left.

* * *

“As I have been trying to explain, Your Grace, it’s all very simple,” said Jean-Louis Laureant, the warden in charge of the dungeons of Beauclair Palace. “The only conclusion we can draw is that your sister somehow bypassed the lock to her cell, slit the guard’s throat, and made flight from the palace.”

Anna Henrietta watched him with cold disapproval, her face twisted into a menacing scowl.

“And she encountered no other guards along the way? She could not have cut his throat without a blade, and the ones found on his body were clean.”

“Perhaps she procured one some other way?”

“An inventory has already been performed. Nothing is missing. Additionally, the lock on her cell was still in place when the body was discovered. How do you explain that?”

“I… that it to say, Your Grace…”

She waved her hand dismissively. “You are useless. Worse than useless, for you clutter our head with increasingly unlikely scenarios that distract us from finding the real truth. Get out of my sight or you may be the next to occupy one of these cells.”

A look of abject fear crossed his face, and he bowed silently, then left. Anna Henrietta heard footsteps approaching from behind, and turned around to see Geralt walking up to her.

“Ah, there you are. Just the professional we need.”

He smirked. “When your guards told me to report to the dungeon, for a minute there I thought you planned to lock me up.”

Anarietta touched the tips of her fingers against her mouth and chuckled. “That may depend on what we learn here. But you need not worry, for unlike the warden in charge of this dungeon, you are not an ignoramus.”

He reached her a few steps later, glancing around at the scene. “This where Syanna was held before she disappeared?”

“Indeed. According to the guards, it happened the very night of the ball. Speaking of which, where is Captain de la Tour? Why is he not with you?”

“He caught me in the middle of a lesson,” he revealed. His eyes settled onto the still dark bloodstain a few meters down the hall. “Convinced him to cover for me.”

The Duchess raised an eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest, fixing him with a deadpan expression. “Truly? You put the Captain of the Ducal Guard on babysitting duty? He has more important things to do.”

Geralt shrugged. “If I hadn’t, I would have been late. And we wouldn’t want that.”

“I suppose not. But we shall have words with him later.”

He ran his fingers along the bars of the cell, peering inside. “I caught most of that conversation while I was walking down here. That really the operating theory? She busted out of here all by herself?”

“No alternatives have presented themselves.” She gestured to the cell with both hands. “The scene was discovered the morning after it occurred, and we have been going over the evidence closely. As you heard yourself, however, there are details which contradict that version of events.”

Kneeling down, he inspected the lock closely. “Hasn’t been picked. But she could just as easily have stolen a key.”

“Impossible.” Anarietta pointed to the blood stain. “The guard expired all the way down there, and his keys were still attached to his belt. If someone wanted to escape from here, it would not be wise to leave them, for there are many other doors standing in the way.”

“And there’s no sign of a murder weapon?”

“Nor have any that she could have used gone missing. To say nothing of the fact that all the exits from this dungeon are protected by guards who remained at their post all night, and reported no disturbances.”

“Hm.” He stood up and glanced over the scene one more time. “Has the body been autopsied?”

“It has. The very same morning it was discovered. The coroner reports that his throat was sliced open with a long blade.”

Geralt looked at the bloodstain, squinting hard and focusing his senses.

“Do you think something else was at work?”

“Your Grace, forgive me for being blunt, but why bring me in now? It’s been days since this happened, and at this point I’m not likely to discover any more than you already know. Hell, it seems like you have a better grasp of the case than the people in charge of investigating it.”

She smiled. “Do not sell yourself short, Witcher. You may very well find something my men have missed. As for why we delayed in calling on your services… well, we did not wish to behave rashly in light of our outburst after the ball.”

He stared at her with both eyebrows raised. She waved a hand dismissively in front of her.

“Oh, there is no use pretending I do not have a temper. It gets the better of me at times, it’s true, and you’ve always had a knack for igniting it. If we’d had this conversation with you then, when our emotions were still raw… well, one wrong word may have shortened you by a head.”

“Appreciate you waiting, then.”

“I am glad as well. Now tell us, what do you require to conduct your investigation? We shall pay you generously of course, well beyond what these dunderheads earn.”

He grasped his chin, pondering carefully. “I’ll need access to the body, assuming it hasn’t been buried yet. And I’ll need to talk to your guards, see if anyone heard anything that might be useful.”

“Naturally. We shall accompany you.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Whyever not?”

“You heard me say I need to examine a dead body, right?”

Anarietta shrugged. “And? This is hardly the first corpse we have ever seen. I am not some frail, blushing maid prone to fainting at such a morbid sight. I wish to know what happened to my sister, Geralt. And this time, I should like to be present for every step of your investigation.”

“Why’s that? Didn’t take you for a micromanager.”

“I am not, not usually at least. Yet we achieved such wondrous results when we helped you to crack the case of the stolen Sangreal, remember?”

He groaned. “Fine. But if things get dangerous, I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way, got it?”

“That is not for you to decide, Witcher.”

“I mean it. I know I’m not in a position to order you around, but that won’t matter if we run into something that requires my sword. Don’t think I could live with myself if you got hurt. Doubt the rest of the court would let me live at all.”

She laughed. “Your concern is touching, Sir Geralt. But we shall be safe enough accompanying you on this adventure, unless the dead can somehow come back to life.”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “That really would be scary, wouldn’t it?”

* * *

“These lessons in swordplay you mentioned,” said Anna Henrietta as they walked down the halls towards their destination. “We recall giving our approval to something of the sort. We trust you do not mean to turn these orphans into little witchers?”

“Wouldn’t be able to. Trial of the Grasses requires a skilled magic user and some very specific ingredients. Last time I saw it done was when Yen and I used it to lift a curse, and even then we only administered the first half.”

“But you admit it is possible?”

“Maybe, but I don’t have any desire to do that again. Day’ll come soon when witchers aren’t needed anymore. Humans and monsters are learning how to better coexist, and there’s not so many monsters that humanity can’t defend itself without our help. At any rate, none of those children would stand a chance at surviving the trials. All I’m doing is giving them a productive way to spend their time.”

“Indeed. It may prove a worthwhile endeavor. The Duchy is always in need of more knights errant, and it would do them well to pick up a few of your witcher’s tricks.”

“Might have to expand the definition of what qualifies as a knight errant, then. Class has more than a few girls.”

Anarietta chuckled. “As you said yourself, Master Witcher, the world is changing. We see no reason to limit the opportunities of these girls, should they choose that path. But there will be resistance, there is no denying that. There always is when change comes.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“There was a time when certain diplomats who were accustomed to dealing with our late husband, Duke Raymund, had to learn to deal with us instead. They were not kind with their words, and needed to be taught a lesson. But on the whole we prefer to rule by inspiring admiration, not fear.”

“Good strategy. Ought to tell your cousin that, like you told him to end the war by writing him a letter.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you aware that you are one of the only individuals valuable enough to our interests that you can get away with making such jokes at our expense?”

“Wasn’t joking, Your Grace. Your subjects love you, and that’s seen this Duchy through some difficult times. His Imperial Majesty really could stand to learn a thing or two from you.”

They turned a corner, passing through another hall and a set of double doors. “You do not truly believe we were so naïve as to think he would actually end the war if we sent him a letter, do you?”

“To be honest, Your Grace, I thought your fairy tale ideals had gotten the better of you.”

“And we understand why you would think that. That was the desired effect, and it is in fact how we learned to deal with all those men who found respecting us to be a challenge. They say it is a wise man who plays the fool, and it is a wise woman who assumes the role of the _ingénue_. Since they underestimated us anyway, we decided to let them hang themselves with their own rope.”

“Not bad as strategies go,” he admitted, smiling. “Make them think of you as an inexperienced young figurehead with a child’s way of looking at the world, then pull the rug out from under them when they least expect it. Certainly had me fooled the first time I came through here.”

“And now?”

“Now I see you’re a lot more savvy than you let on. Saw a completely different side of you when you helped me track down the missing Sangreal, and when you helped me infiltrate the Mandragora. You’re smart, observant, compassionate, and you know how to make the best use of your advantages. All qualities of a great ruler.”

 “We are pleased to hear you say that.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

They continued down the hallway for another minute or so, then ascended a flight of stairs, coming out into another long chamber.

“When you have a chance,” she began, “you should check in on Lady Vivienne. We told her of the curse, and since then she has sequestered herself in her chambers, demanding that the dog be kept as far away from her as possible.”

He nodded. “Be sure to do just that. If you want the curse lifted though, it’ll need to come with a contract.”

“Are you truly immune to altruism, Sir Geralt?”

“Not when it comes to people I care about. Which doesn’t apply to Guillaume. At all.”

“Ah, but that is where our definition of altruism differs. Looking after only those close to you is ultimately a selfish quality. You care because of how much of yourself you’ve invested in those you love. But altruism is selfless. It is the base from which the five chivalric virtues stem.”

“Suppose I’m not very virtuous, then.”

Anarietta smiled, wagging a finger at him. “I beg to differ. I still remember the first time you stayed in Toussaint, with your _hanse_. Dandelion, Regis, Milva, Cahir, even Angoulême and her vulgar mouth. You hid it well, but you grew to enjoy their company in spite of yourself.”

“Still don’t see how that makes me altruistic.”

“Really? You were there for Milva while she recovered from one of the most traumatic things a woman can experience. You were not a warm shoulder to cry on, but rather a solid rock to cling to in a storm. Precisely what she needed to keep herself from washing away. You tried to understand her as best you could, and that was enough.”

“Didn’t save her in the end.”

“That may be true, but it does not change the facts.”

“Okay then, that’s only one of them. Doesn’t prove anything.”

“Then we shall provide you with another example. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. A knight from Vicovaro, a man you had every reason to despise for what he represented to Ciri, yet I believe you saw the purity of his intentions. You kept your distance, but the two of you reached an understanding nonetheless. Had he survived you may have even become good friends.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that one. Hated the guy at first, but he earned my respect in the end.”

“There is more. You rescued Angoulême from a death sentence, on more than one occasion. The fact that she hailed from Cintra and resembled Ciri only goes so far towards explaining that.”

“What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just let her die.”

“Why not? She was hardly innocent. She was a ruffian, a bandit. She’d killed and marauded long before you came across her.”

“At that point, so had Ciri.”

“But did you know that at the time?”

He nodded. “Saw it in my dreams.”

“At any rate, you rescued a stranger and kept her with you well past the time when she had served her original purpose. A feat worthy of admiration in our eyes. And we need not even mention how much you’ve done for Regis and Viscount Julian both.”

“There a point to all this?”

“You are a hero, Geralt, but a reluctant one. Something happened when you were young that tarnished your opinion of heroes, but we have never met anyone quite so virtuous as you. And make no mistake, virtue does not require that you be nice, nor polite, nor easy to coexist with at all. It simply means that when it matters, you will do the right thing.”

He shook his head. “Done the wrong thing plenty of times.”

“Nobody is perfect. If you require payment to break the curse that holds Guillaume, then so be it. But do not pretend that you lifted Lady Vivienne’s own curse solely because he paid you to.”

“Hm. Got a point, I suppose.”

“We knew you would see it our way. Now come quickly, Geralt. We are almost at the barracks.”

* * *

“And that is all I know, Your Grace,” the young guard before them finished. “Henri and I, we manned the door leading to the dungeon the whole night; we did not notice anything.”

They were standing in the central hall of the barracks, located in its own wing of Beauclair Palace. The palace detachment of the Ducal Guard was quartered here, and it was here where they found the men that Geralt hoped to question. Thus far, it was not going well.

“You did not see anything?” asked the Duchess. “Hear anything? _Smell_ anything, for heaven’s sake?”

He shook his head. “No, Your Grace. In fact, we heard nothing.”

“Then it seems we must order a physician to inspect your ears, for this all occurred within earshot of your post. Your partner, he did not hear anything either?”

“You misunderstand, Your Grace. We heard _nothing_. Not the crickets chirping, nor the rats skittering about. Not even the birds outside. That is what was so strange.”

Geralt, who had been listening patiently up to this point while Anarietta had handled the questions, pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning. “This a particularly noisy dungeon?”

“It’s never terribly loud, but it has its own sounds, just like any place. When you spend enough time there, you get used to them, and when they are not there it becomes altogether very strange.”

“Hm.” He scratched the back of his head and tapped his foot. “Could have been a spell. Yen’s been known to cast silence over a small area when she wants some peace and quiet. Or when she wants me to shut up.”

“And an intruder skilled in magic could do the same if they did not want to be heard,” said Anarietta. “This would explain why sound was extinguished while all of this occurred.” She squinted at the floor, enveloping her chin with her palm. “This narrows the list of suspects considerably.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean it was a mage,” said Geralt. “The spell itself is simple; doesn’t need an incantation. A sorceress can do it without components, but the ingredients for it aren’t difficult to come by. Anyone who knew that could have done it.”

“It is an important clue, in any case. Thank you, Edmond. You may return to your duties.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Where to next, Sir Geralt?”

“Still have check out the body. Sure you want to come with?”

“We have already been over this. Unless my life is in immediate danger, I shall remain at your side. This is something we must oversee personally, for I fear our inattentiveness was to blame for this whole fiasco. We could have prevented so much of what happened had we paid the situation more mind.”

They began walking again. “Not your fault, Your Grace. I didn’t tell you about Gaunter O’Dimm until after it was too late. Don’t see how anybody could have predicted what happened, though.”

“We should have. You are not incorrect that some of the fault lies with you, but we are also to blame for not seeing the signs.”

"Been thinking about what you said after the ball, about covering this up. Are you sure the Emperor would execute you for being host to a royal embarrassment? I saw more embarrassing things the last time I was in Toussaint."

"I was thinking more along the lines of aiding and abetting those who faked his daughter's death. Heads tend to roll for that sort of treason."

"I wouldn't worry then, Your Grace. Nilfgaard is a modern country, where they punish treason by hanging, not beheading."

Anna Henrietta stopped in place and turned to glare at him, hands on her hips. "Are you suggesting, Witcher, that Beauclair, and Toussaint in general, is a backwards society?"

"Not at all, Your Grace. Just trying to find the humor in all this."

"Look for it on your own time. Right now just focus on what we have hired you to do."

"Yes, Your Grace."

After a brief pause, they resumed walking.

"I wonder, Sir Geralt, how you are still alive after displaying such insolence to so many rulers. And why you do not seem to be afraid of doing so."

"May I be honest, Your Grace?"

"You had better."

"When you've escaped death as often as I have, whatever rulers have to threaten you with ceases to be frightening. Besides, after dealing with Ciri's grandmother, no one else comes close to intimidating me."

"Yes, we knew Queen Calanthe of Cintra. A true force of nature."

“Ciri was just as high and mighty when I first met her. Threatened to have my head chopped off just for talking back to her.”

“This was in the forests of Brokilon, yes?”

“Mhm. Had no idea who she was at first. Thought she was just another spoiled princess.”

“As you thought I was just another spoiled duchess?”

“Like I said, first impressions can be deceiving.”

“They can indeed. And as I told you earlier, sometimes we must continue to foster such impressions so that others do not discover our true strength. In the end, that was Queen Calanthe’s downfall. She was the Lioness of Cintra, and for all the respect and fear it wrought her, it also invited challenge.”

“Is that why you’d rather the Emperor think of Toussaint as an insignificant vassal state?”

“Indeed. The dukes and duchesses before us have endeavored to do the same. Because of this, war has not touched us in many generations.”

“Not with other humans, at least.”

“What are you implying, Witcher?”

“Just occurs to me that Syanna was at the center of all that too.”

“An insignificant detail. She has several foes who might wish her harm. Though not many who could have performed the magic you mentioned.”

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, bracing himself. “There’s another explanation, Your Grace.”

“Which is?”

“Syanna could have been the one to cast the spell.”

“What? How? My sister is no mage.”

“As I said, it’s easy enough for an amateur to do it. She could have had the ingredients smuggled in, pickpocketed the keys as the guard walked by, opened the cell, slit his throat, cleaned the blade, and put the keys back on the body to throw off suspicion.”

“But then how would she have gotten out?”

He shrugged. “Both of you grew up in this palace. You’re telling me there aren’t any secret passages she might have been able to use?”

“Not in the dungeon. Any that did exist were filled in years ago.”

“Could be you missed one. In any case, we’ll probably get more answers from the body.”

“I suspect you are right,” she said. “Very well, then. To the morgue.”

* * *

“Ah yes, here it is,” said the coroner, known only as Baptiste. “The body of one Luc Boissier.”

Baptiste did not match most people’s image of one who spent all day examining corpses; he was very handsome, with skin the color of dark earth. He had curly black hair and piercing blue eyes, but his face was disarming and gentle. Still, Geralt eyed him warily, having acquired some experience with coroners who were more than they seemed.

“Thank you,” said Anna Henrietta, not even flinching as the sheet was pulled back to reveal a face paled by death, throat carved open. “Well, Sir Geralt? What do you think?”

“For starters, glad the morgue isn’t in my wine cellar anymore.”

“Indeed. That was a grave oversight, albeit one that ultimately adds character to the wine produced and stored there. But I was inquiring after your opinion on what happened to this young man.”

He leaned over the body, examining the wound. “Said it was a long blade, right?”

“Precisely,” said Baptiste. “It severed his jugular vein, leading to death by exsanguination. It cut clear through to the vertebrae, which means the sword must have been impressively sharp. Far sharper than the one he was wielding.”

The Duchess tilted her head to the side as she stared at the wound. “What sort of blade could do that?”

“One like the swords I’m wielding, for starters,” said Geralt. “One well-crafted and maintained. Most likely wasn’t a witcher’s blade, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“No one else in Toussaint has one.”

“A fair point. What sort of weapon do you imagine it was, then?”

“Hm.” He squinted, leaning in closer. His gaze lingered there for a moment, before he slammed his fist against the slab. “Damn it.”

Anarietta blinked. “What? Have you discovered something?”

“It wasn’t a sword.”

“A dagger, then? Or some sort of improvised blade?”

Geralt shook his head and stood up, putting a couple of steps between him and the corpse. “None of those would be sharp enough. I’ve seen wounds like this before.”

“Where?”

“On victims of the Beast of Beauclair.”

The Duchess gave a small gasp as her eyes widened, but quickly composed herself. “But you yourself slew Dettlaff, swore he would never return, never be revived. How is this possible?”

“Dettlaff wasn’t the only higher vampire in Toussaint,” he pointed out. “Not by a long shot.”

“So you are suggesting it could have been one of them?”

“Mhm. Could explain how they got Syanna out of there without any of the guards noticing either. Would’ve been child’s play.”

“I see. Baptiste, allow us the room, please.”

The coroner nodded and silently bowed, then exited the chamber, leaving them alone with the corpse.

Anarietta grasped her chin and began to pace, pondering the information carefully. “There is evidence from that night which would support this theory. My sister managed to run afoul of Orianna during the ball. It might have been her.”

“Wait,” said Geralt. “You know Orianna is a vampire?”

“As if it wasn’t obvious?” She gesticulated with her hands, throwing them in the air to either side of her. “As if Regis and Dettlaff showing up at her estate, talking about how the three of them were old friends was a coincidence? Even Dandelion at his drunkest could have solved that mystery.”

“Well, guess it’s not like she tried to hide it.”

“True indeed. If she laid a finger on my sister…”

“Still don’t have proof it was her,” he said. “Like I said, Toussaint is riddled with vampires.”

“But none were in attendance aside from Orianna.”

“None that you know of.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You should know, Witcher, that Syanna caught her attention by rescuing Mistle when the rest of you failed to keep an eye on her. From what they told me, Orianna blames my sister for Dettlaff’s demise. And she knew the guard would be lax around a prisoner I could not bring myself to punish as harshly as she deserved. That is means, motive, and opportunity. All one needs to prove a crime occurred, no?”

Geralt sighed. “Guess you’re right. But I can’t help noticing there’s one possibility you’re avoiding.”

“What is that?”

“That maybe Syanna wasn’t just taken,” he said. “Think about it: vampires aren’t big on keeping prisoners. When they make enemies, those enemies never live long.”

The Duchess closed her eyes, inhaling deeply before speaking. “I suppose in that respect, vampires and I have something in common.”

“Now what? Want me to kill Orianna just like Dettlaff? Won’t be that easy, and it’ll cost you a lot.”

“First we must hear the words from her own mouth,” she replied through gritted teeth. “We must hear her confess, and if she is responsible, there will be hell to pay!”

“You’re assuming she cares enough to be bound by human laws,” he said. “Vampires have seen civilizations come and go. If push comes to shove, she may decide to just kill us both. She’s more than capable of it, and I doubt she’d give it a second thought.”

“That is not important! You defeated one vampire, and I have no doubt that you can do it again! We shall collect the Captain and question her posthaste!”

She stomped towards the door, and Geralt held up his hands.

“Your Grace, wait.”

Anarietta stopped.

“If you are going to talk with Orianna, there is a way to protect yourself.”

She turned around and planted both hands on her hips. “And what would that be?”

“When you were children, Artorius Vigo gave Syanna a ribbon,” he explained. “She was wearing it when you imprisoned her. Do you still have it?”

“Of course,” she replied. “He claimed it would protect her from evil. But I fail to see how it will aid us.”

“The ribbon is enchanted,” he said. “If the person wearing it is in mortal danger, it instantly transports them into the Land of a Thousand Fables. Saw it happen myself when Dettlaff tried to kill her.”

“Very well then.” Her voice was considerably calmer now. “We shall have the ribbon fetched, then we shall make our way to Orianna. She must answer for what she has done.”

“I agree, Your Grace.” He paused, scowling gravely as he slowly rotated his head to face her. “But if you are going to confront her, there’s one more thing you should know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we've spent some time with Ciri and the Rats, it's time to see how Geralt and the others are doing. The main goal of this chapter was to expand on Geralt's relationship with Anna Henrietta, a character I find endlessly fascinating. At first glance she appears to just be another spoiled ruler, but happens to be supremely competent and intelligent when she finds herself in a situation that plays to her strengths.
> 
> Sometimes the most entertaining mysteries are the ones we already know the answers to, because watching the investigative process can be more fun than the denouement. The Witcher series, the games especially, borrow heavily from the traditions of early 20th century American detective fiction, and it's nice to bring those influences back in occasionally.
> 
> Come back in two weeks, when we'll be checking in on what Yennefer's been up to.


	28. The Flower that Blooms after Midnight

A small, slender finger wrapped around a rowan petal, plucking it from the tree and carrying it slowly away, tucking it into a head of short red hair. The woman ambled backwards, traipsing among the fields of wild roses, carnations, daffodils and dandelions. Daisies, begonias, marigolds, gardenias and morning glories, species that shouldn’t rightly belong in the same place, all flourished and blossomed in the fields of Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers.

Shani sighed and stared at the beauty surrounding her, a little drop of paradise at the edge of the world. Beyond this valley lay the Blue Mountains, separating this part of the continent from the uncharted lands to the east. For most people, this was as far as they were willing to go, its scenic vistas and untouched landscapes inspiring tales which they would tell their loved ones for years to come, recounting their grand adventure.

If only it hadn’t been paid for in blood.

Though several years into restored elven rule, the denizens of Dol Blathanna had not forgotten the sacrifices made to secure their dominion over this corner of the continent, and Shani remembered it better than most. She still recalled the tent, the halfling and the sorceress by her side, and the endless stream of broken bodies that wouldn’t have needed fixing at all if men and elves had the courage to actually talk out their disagreements instead of sending their soldiers into a meat grinder.

It was funny, really. What looked to most passing observers like a beautiful field of flowers was a warzone in its own right. Like people, plants were constantly competing over limited resources, fighting against overcrowding, and dealing with invasion from hostile species. If one species was aggressive enough, it could choke out all its rivals and claim the space as its own, and from the outside it would appear as though it had always been there. Occasionally some bastion of the old ecosystem would remain, slowly dying in a world that had left it behind. The mix of flowers before her told the stories of many long and bloody conflicts that happened on a level very few even noticed, but whose consequences reached far into the future and, on some level, could change a very small world.

She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, letting the air pass through her slowly while she calmed her thoughts. Spending time with nature was supposed to be relaxing; a way to forget about her worries for a while. But instead it all came bubbling to the surface like so much pond scum.

A slight rustle caught her ears, and one eye peeked open, glancing out through her peripheral. With unusual speed, she ducked low just before a small metal orb rocketed through the space where her head had been, disappearing into the meadow beyond. Shani stood, glaring with unholy fury at the large, horned being who stood with his arm outstretched, his goat legs tensing and ready to spring into action.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to play your stupid game. Go find Dandelion and throw balls at him.”

The red-furred sylvan shook his head. “He doesn’t want to play either. Too much on his mind, he says. I think he’s just mad I got him right between the eyes.”

“Then go bother one of the dwarves.”

“Not on your life. They don’t stop playing until they draw blood.”

Shani drooped her shoulders, running a hand slowly down her face. She still remembered what had happened when Zoltan won five straight rounds of Gwent, and Yarpen Zigrin accused him of hiding cards up his sleeve. It ended with her cleaning blood from places that should never have been bleeding, as well as threatening to injure them herself the next time they drew axes over a card game.

“Look, I get that you’re just trying to lighten the mood. But I came out here to be alone and enjoy nature for five bloody minutes. Can’t you let me have that?”

Crossing his arms, he huffed. “Who says it’s yours to enjoy? This place was around long before you humans arrived and turned it all into farms.”

“One: do I look like a farmer?” Shani leaned aggressively closer, planting her hands on her hips. “Two: nature doesn’t belong to anybody, which means we all get to enjoy it. All I want is a few minutes peace.”

“Alright, alright.” He lumbered past her, finding where the iron ball had come to rest with uncanny accuracy. He scooped it up in his oversized hand, and Shani narrowed her eyes while folding her arms over her chest. “But I want to admire it too.”

“Then by all means,” she said, gesturing out to the landscape surrounding them. “Admire away.”

He took a seat, plopping down roughly underneath the rowan, careful not to trample any of the other flowers.

Somehow company made the view more bearable, and kept her more cynical thoughts at bay. Shani remained standing, staring out over the vast meadow that ended when it reached the mountains, which stood tall and eternal, their base obscured by the morning mist.

Her reverie was cut short by a sound like booming thunder, which manifested around a tear in the fabric of time and space. A form clad in a fine black and white dress tumbled out of the portal haphazardly, standing just as quickly while smacking away the dust.

“Damn elven portals!” the woman cursed. “Always throwing off my aim! If I have to walk all the way there in these heels…”

She trailed off, realizing that she was not alone.

“Uh… hi,” said Shani, raising a hand in greeting.

The other woman leaned her head back and narrowed her eyes. “…Hello.”

She had long, raven-black hair and eyes the color of violets. A strong scent reached Shani’s nose, perceptible even amidst the horde of flowers. Lilac and gooseberries. Around her neck she wore an amulet, a five-pointed star crafted from diamonds. Her stare was striking and implacable, and though they’d never met, Shani knew this woman somehow. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

Before their conversation could continue, a small iron ball sailed through the air, striking the mysterious woman directly in the forehead. She staggered back, raising a finger before collapsing backwards onto the ground.

Shani stood there stunned for a moment before whipping around with a furious glare. “Torque!”

“What? She could have been dangerous!”

“I’ll show you dangerous,” she muttered, stalking carefully over to the unconscious woman. Placing two fingers against her neck, she confirmed that her heart was still beating. She sighed. “We can’t just leave her out here. Help me carry her, and let’s bring her to the others.”

Torque nodded, scooping the woman up with one massive hand and draping her over his shoulder. The two of them turned around and began walking back towards the center of the valley.

* * *

Like a tired old song, existence filled her senses and brought her to that uncanny twilight between sleeping and being. The whole world around her was muffled, as though she lay beneath several feet of snow. She heard sounds but not words, cascading over her without clarity or meaning. Then, without warning, the fog broke and suddenly she was much too awake.

“Hey, she’s moving.”

Yennefer moaned, blinking her eyes as the most terrible headache smacked her in the forehead like a tidal wave. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun, feeling nature underneath her, with several faces gathered above.

“What…?”

“Yennefer, it’s me. Dandelion. You’re safe.”

She glared at him with all the bitterness of the pure black coffee she desperately craved. “That seems doubtful.”

Dandelion sighed and hung his head, but she could see a smile beginning to take shape on his face. An thin arm shoved him out of the way with unexpected strength, and her vision was now filled with a young redhead who stared intensely into her eyes as she leaned in close.

“May I help you?”

“Forgive me, but I need to make sure your head didn’t sustain any permanent damage. Can you tell me your name?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

It took her a moment to summon the memory, and her glare intensified. “You waved hello at me right before something struck me very hard in the forehead.” She lunged forward. “Where is that creature?”

Strong hands pushed her back down, and she heard a familiar dwarf’s voice next to her. “Whoa there. Might not wanna get up so fast.”

Yennefer grumbled, but stayed where she was. “Can any of you at least tell me where I am? I was aiming for Francesca’s palace but something threw me off and I ended up in a place where knocking someone unconscious is apparently an acceptable form of greeting.”

“That actually describes a few places I’ve been,” Dandelion said from behind her, before yelping in pain after someone smacked him upside the head. “Ow!”

“You’re still in Dol Blathanna,” the redhead told her. “The palace is about a mile off; it’s the closest those elves actually let us get.”

“Wonderful. I should leave at once.” She pushed herself up, took two steps forward, and then her brain decided to turn upside down like a capsized bowl of soup. Careening forward, she was caught by a pair of strong hands, and crashed down roughly on her knees. “That’s troubling.”

“To say the least,” said the other woman, taking a closer look at her eyes. “Zoltan wasn’t kidding when he said you shouldn’t get up so fast. All that blood rushing into your head at once isn’t exactly good for you.”

“I shall take that under advisement,” she said, rising more slowly this time. Her vision went black momentarily, and she staggered a bit, holding her arms out to her sides. The red-haired woman stabilized her, as did Dandelion, or so she presumed from how unusually soft his hands were.

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” the woman advised. “You’re not suffering any memory loss, and your pupils aren’t dilated. You’ve had no trouble forming intelligible sentences so I think you’ve just been knocked for a loop. You should be fine after an hour’s rest.”

Yennefer shook her head. “I’ve no time for this. I must get to the library to find what I can about the Elder Blood and Gaunter O’Dimm, so I can…”

She dropped suddenly to the ground, dragging Dandelion along for the ride. The redhead stared at her in vague shock, and she lay there with no strong desire to move.

“Gaunter O’Dimm? Where’d you hear a name like that?”

With dawning horror, Yennefer realized what she’d let slip. “It doesn’t matter. I have to help Ciri.”

Dandelion shook his head. “Yennefer, you heard what she said. Just rest here for an hour. We can get you some food, trade stories, I could sing one of my ballads…”

“I think that may actually impede my recovery.”

“Let’s at least get you something more comfortable to lie on,” he insisted, going to fetch a bedroll and some pillows. “Be right back.”

The redhead knelt down beside her, staring over her with ever growing curiosity. Yennefer sent a similar look her way.

“Who are you?”

She smacked her forehead. “I never introduced myself, did I? I’m Shani.”

“Ah.” Now it made sense. “You’re _that_ Shani. The medical student from Oxenfurt.”

“And you’re _that_ Yennefer. The one Geralt finally settled down with.”

“A pleasure.”

Shani smirked. “All mine. I’ll ask again: where’d you hear about Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“I met him. You?”

“Same. You don’t forget a man like that.”

Yennefer shook her head slowly. “No, you don’t.”

By this time Dandelion and Zoltan had returned, propping her up on a silk bedroll with multiple pillows. She accepted it with vague annoyance, like a pampered cat. Shani looked on with her arms crossed, and by the end of it Yennefer did have to admit that it was rather comfortable.

“What are all of you doing out here, anyway?” She spared a glance at Dandelion, who had started to play a few chords on his lute. “From what I hear you have a tavern to look after these days.”

“We’re taking a small vacation,” he answered. “For Priscilla.” He motioned behind her, and Yennefer turned to look.

If she had been asked to describe what Dandelion would look like as a woman, it wouldn’t have been that far off from the blonde she saw before her in a garish-looking trobairitz outfit, only slightly less ridiculous than that of the bard. Fragments of her memory came together in a moment of shining clarity, and she understood.

“Right. Ida mentioned you were looking to restore her voice.” She turned to Shani. “My memory may have been impacted after all.”

“Well, you remember it now, so there’s no permanent damage.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“We ran into Shani on the way here, actually,” said Dandelion. “Craziest coincidence. The dwarves had the bright idea of causing a row in a tavern a few days southeast of Oxenfurt, and by morning they had to call a healer out to clean everybody up. And who should arrive but our radiant battle medic.”

“I think yer misrememberin’ who started that commotion,” Zoltan muttered, crossing his arms and staring at him sideways. “Y’know in Mahakam, bards aren’t allowed to marry on account of how their words can wound a monarch so bad they’re no longer fit to be king.”

“Well maybe they should learn to handle a jest,” he retorted. “Besides, the man who took offense to my words was hardly a king.”

“Nay, he just happened to be a Priest of the Eternal Fire. A group well known for their sense of humor.” He jerked his head towards Priscilla, who sat there with her legs curled close to her chest, watching them. “Ye don’t need me to tell you how that can end. Part of me wonders if that’s not why ye did it.”

“All I said was you can’t expect to be taken seriously when the leader of your whole organization has the word ‘fart’ right in his name. It was all in good fun.”

“Aye, punching him right in the bahoochie _was_ good fun.” He chuckled. “Got that temple guard square in the ghoulies, too.”

“Sounds absolutely magical,” said Yennefer, her face never losing her trademark deadpan expression. “Why in the world did you tag along with these cretins?”

Shani smirked. “They’re not all bad. Dandelion’s an old friend, and after the war ended I decided not to go back to my practice. Wanted to see the world as a travelling doctor, ply my trade in areas that truly needed it. To be honest, I’d grown tired of Oxenfurt. With the academy closed down and Nilfgaard moving in, I figured it was time for a change.”

“Me, I came along to keep this dunderhead safe,” said Zoltan, rustling the top of Dandelion’s hair. “Besides, Dol Blathanna’s beautiful this time of year.”

“What about you, Yennefer?” asked Dandelion. “Why did you make the trip out here?”

“You didn’t hear me earlier? It’s related to Ciri. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother showing myself at the palace of the elf who once compressed me and stored me between her breasts for a month and a half.”

They all stared at her.

“What, like weirder things haven’t happened to the lot of you?”

Shani pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. “What does Gaunter O’Dimm have to do with it?”

“Who?” asked Dandelion.

Clutching her throbbing forehead, Yennefer sighed and began to explain. “Around two weeks ago, Ciri was wounded and robbed by bandits, and ended up in a tavern where a man named Gaunter O’Dimm was waiting for her. He healed her in exchange for a favor, and she agreed, only to find that he’d somehow brought her former lover back to life, and wanted her to perform three wishes as his proxy so he could claim this other woman’s soul.”

Dandelion dropped his lute. The others looked on in confusion.

“Geralt had to perform a similar service for Gaunter O’Dimm the last time I saw him,” said Shani. “A man named Olgierd von Everec had made a pact with O’Dimm some years past, a side effect of which was that his brother got killed. One of the wishes involved showing said brother a good time, so Geralt let the man’s ghost possess him for a night, and I took him as my date to a friend’s wedding.”

“A pact?” asked Zoltan. “What is he, some sort o’ demon?”

“No one’s entirely sure,” answered Yennefer. “But he’s old. Very old. Enough so that he may have had some sort of involvement with the Elder Blood.”

“I’ve been having dreams about Ciri lately,” said Dandelion, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. “Strange ones. One of them told me to expect you. The other… I know the world around us wasn’t real, but I think I shared a dream with her. She was being tormented by figures from her past, and I got there just in time to inspire her and snap her out of it. That was less than a week ago.”

“I’m no expert in dream magic, but after everything else I’ve seen I wouldn’t discount it,” she said. “The reason I’m here is to see if the Aen Seidhe remember anything about him that’s otherwise been lost to history. Francesca’s certainly been alive long enough to have at least heard of him.”

Shani stood there with her arms crossed, gazing out at the valley surrounding them.

“All I remember is how Vlodomir von Everec screamed when Gaunter O’Dimm sent him away. I hadn’t actually been able to hear his ghost that whole night except when he spoke through Geralt, but I heard his screams. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Geralt told me that story. He says those screams still give him nightmares sometimes. That doesn’t often happen to a witcher.”

Dandelion narrowed his eyes and frowned. “What does he want with souls anyway?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Shani. “All I know is that ghost preferred his crypt over being taken by him.”

“At any rate, I must get to the library,” said Yennefer. “You’re obviously the studious sort, and you have firsthand experience with Gaunter O’Dimm. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Of course. But not before you’ve rested.”

Yennefer grumbled.

* * *

“So what happened to her?” Yennefer murmured to Dandelion as they both watched Priscilla playing a card game called Barrel with three of the dwarves. She had just won a hand and was celebrating noiselessly, raising her arms in the air. “Ida told me she was attacked and forced to drink formaldehyde. Horrible.”

He nodded solemnly. “The really horrible part is the attacker wasn’t even finished. With the other victims he replaced their eyes with burning coals, cut them open and put salamander eggs inside of them. Geralt hunted the whoreson down, and handled it ‘the witcher’s way,’ as he put it.”

“That sounds like Geralt. Did you find out who the killer was?”

“A coroner named Hubert Rejk. He was really a higher vampire who, get this, killed his victims to steer people towards the Church of the Eternal Fire.”

“You’re joking.”

“Even I couldn’t invent something that outlandish. It’d make a great ballad if it didn’t involve the woman I love getting maimed.”

“And you’ve been trying to heal her ever since?”

He strummed a few notes on his lute. “Yeah. The doctor at the hospital was able to keep her from dying, but he told me it would take a miracle for her to sing again. She performed a beautiful piece about you and Geralt. It’s too bad you never got to hear it.”

Yennefer pursed her lips and continued to observe the card game. Zoltan had started gaining the advantage, and the other dwarves were getting riled. From what she understood, it would take a lot more than a simple winning streak for them to actually trade blows.

“So you thought you might find this miracle here?”

He shrugged. “I thought about trying Brokilon, but I doubt I’d get within half a mile of it before getting an arrow through my skull. Zoltan and his friends actually fought against the Scoia’tael in the war, so they wouldn’t have been welcome either. In the end I decided to try my luck here.”

“I assume it’s been going splendidly.”

“Very funny. It’s not like your sage friend hasn’t made it painfully clear how little they can actually do, but I’ve learned not to take elves at their word, especially not elven sages. Besides, Priscilla likes it here. We’ve been needing an actual vacation for a while.”

“How _is_ Novigrad these days?”

He smiled. “You wouldn’t believe it, but things are actually better with Nilfgaard in charge. The Church of the Eternal Fire only has religious authority now, and they can’t arrest or torture people anymore. They even put an end to the public executions.”

“Yes, Triss mentioned that. Apparently the Emperor has been working closely with the Lodge.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re any more merciful when it comes to keeping the populace in line,” he elaborated. “But they’re not burning mages and nonhumans in the town square just because they need a scapegoat. There’s an actual justice system in place.”

“Draconian as it is, you can’t say the Nilfgaardians don’t stick to their code.”

“What about Toussaint? How’s Anarietta doing?”

Yennefer arched an eyebrow as high as she could and stared at him skeptically. He raised his hands to pacify her.

“I’m only asking because I still care about her as a dear friend. My heart belongs to someone else now.”

“From what I’ve been told, the only part of yourself that you gave her was your cock. Even then she didn’t grip it tightly enough to keep you from ploughing one of her chambermaids.”

“Handmaiden, if we’re going to be technical about things, and our relationship wasn’t only about sex.  I loved her and I still consider her a friend.” He frowned and turned away. “Even if she never wants to see me again.”

“Finally accepted that, have you?”

“It’s been five years. You never know what could change.”

“Well, if you had any plans to visit her, I’d put them off. She’s in a bit of hot water right now. The first wish Ciri was supposed to fulfill involved using the Duchess’ palace for a lavish ball. Ciri proceeded to get piss drunk at said ball and challenged Rosa var Attre to a duel.”

He blinked. “Did she win?”

“Of course. However, she maimed her opponent in the process, and it’s doubtful Rosa will ever walk again. That alone would make for enough of a scandal, but there’s also the small fact that Emhyr was told that Ciri is dead, which is why she attended the ball under an assumed name.”

“And if he finds out Anarietta helped hide that from him…”

“Precisely. Fortunately she’s more than equipped to stop such a story from spreading. I wouldn’t worry too much about her.”

“What about Rosa? Will she be okay?”

“Ah. Geralt mentioned you have history with her, though not the kind you usually have with women.”

He nodded. “Nothing ever happened. In the end I got bamboozled by her twin.”

“As I mentioned, the damage to her spine is quite severe. Ciri cut her right across the back, and in her delirium Rosa claimed she couldn’t feel her legs. A little deeper and she’d have been cut right in half.”

Looking stricken, he moved his hands over his mouth. “Why would Ciri do that?”

Yennefer shrugged. “According to her, she was whipped up into a frenzy thanks to the influence of Gaunter O’Dimm. He used the ball as an opportunity to sow misfortune, which included transforming a disgraced knight into a dog just because he wished to be forever bonded to the Duchess’ Lady in Waiting.”

“That’s both horrifying and just a little hilarious.”

“I thought the same. I’ve no idea what specifically he said to Ciri, but he didn’t directly control her mind. It’s more like he uncovered whatever darkness was already within her, and brought it to the surface. It’s this same darkness that led her to join a gang all those years ago, after the Mages’ Rebellion on Thanedd. At least that’s what she claimed the following morning.”

Dandelion’s features tightened, and his eyes moved to the card game. Priscilla was winning again, and the dwarves didn’t look agitated about that. Yennefer surmised that they were letting her win.

“When was this?”

“Twelve days after Saovine, or thereabouts. Ciri had been staying with us for a week beforehand.”

“I had my first dream involving Ciri that night,” he said. “It started as a dream about the Djinn that nearly killed me when you and Geralt first met. But Ciri was the one who saved me this time instead. I couldn’t make much sense of what she was saying at the time, but I knew it involved wishes, Ciri being in trouble, and you.”

“Right on all counts,” said Yennefer, impressed. “As I said, I’m no oneiromancer, but dreams can communicate secrets even to the non-adept.”

“The second one was even weirder,” he said. “I think that time I made contact with the real Ciri. Somehow we were having the same dream, and it felt no different than sitting here next to you now. That’s not the sort of thing that happens by coincidence. I think someone or something created the dream and pulled both of us into it. The same someone might have been behind my first dream, too.”

“Someone like Gaunter O’Dimm, perhaps. Triss thinks he had his eye on her since before she was even born. If her theory is correct, he may have been involved with the Elder Blood as far back as Lara Dorren.”

“The first Source,” he muttered. “It always comes back to that with Ciri, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does. Geralt had dreams about Ciri years ago too.”

“Not like this. He described those as little windows into what was happening in her life at the time. He never talked to her through them.” He frowned. “I’m worried about her, Yennefer.”

“As am I. Which is why I’m doing everything in my power to find the knowledge necessary to help her.”

“Well, you’ve rested long enough,” said Shani, standing behind her with her arms crossed, staring down. “I’m ready to get going if you are.”

“So am I,” said Dandelion, standing quickly. “I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as you do.”

Yennefer rose much more smoothly than before, dusting herself off as she did so. “Then by all means. Let’s be off.”

* * *

The palace was ancient and beautiful, designed to work in equilibrium with the nature around it. Tall marble columns and open courtyards comprised most of the space, and the three of them attracted brief glances from the elves they passed, though none were rude enough to stare.

They passed a fountain depicting a naiad, which held a jug that cascaded water down over lily-pads, partially obscuring the school of goldfish, which had grown in size since Yennefer had clambered inside it while suffering the most irritating side effects of artefact compression. She narrowed her eyes at it, and they moved on.

They arrived at the library, a tall white marble building decorated with vines. There was no door to speak of, only an enormous archway, under which stood a familiar red-haired elf clad in coral, amber, and pearls. Ida Emean aep Sivney  stood with her hands clasped in front of her, dangling by her waist.

“ _Ceádmil,_ Yennefer aep Vengerberg.” Her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly as her eyes fell on her companions. “Shani. Master Dandelion. _Ceádmil_ to you as well.”

“ _Ceádmil_ , Aen Saevherne,” Yennefer replied, and the three of them bowed with an odd degree of synchrony. “I wasn’t expecting you to be the one greeting us.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t live in the valley. You live in the Blue Mountains. Francesca isn’t so proud that she’s in the habit of sending proxies, either.”

Ida shrugged. “Francesca is busy, and has been for a few days. I’ve relocated here for the time being to assist, hence why I’ve already met these two. I told you before you came here that Francesca would be unreachable.”

“By megascope specifically. I won’t pry into your affairs, because I honestly don’t care what any of you get up to. But don’t think of me as naïve.”

Closing her eyes, Ida sighed and shook her head slowly. “She’ll be available for dinner later tonight. If you haven’t given up your quest by then.” She turned around and began to enter the structure. “Shall we?”

They followed.

“I did some cursory research into the one you mentioned, the Man of Glass,” she began, leading them further into the library, where they saw scores of books both ancient and more modern lining hundreds of shelves, spread out in circular rings interrupted by six straight walkways like spokes of a wheel. “I didn’t recognize that particular name at first, but it is connected to some old legends, along with the name Master Mirror.”

“One particular legend interests me,” said Yennefer as they came to a stop in the center of the library, where Francesca liked to hold audiences. Currently the chair was empty. “That of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal and the Elder Blood.”

“Yes, you mentioned that. Tell me: why do you think this Man of Glass has anything to do with that story?”

“Certainly you’ve noticed a few similarities between it and the legends he appears in. An elf and a human fall in love and only want to be happy, and then everything goes catastrophically awry for seven generations. Incest, madness, a curse… Triss came up with the theory, but I’m interested in confirming its veracity.”

Ida leaned her head back and regarded her cautiously. “Why is it so important to you?”

“Because he’s ensnared Ciri. She’s bonded in service to him and I seek a means of helping her escape. It sounds strange, but his abilities aren’t dissimilar to hers. If he was involved in the creation and development of the Elder Blood, then Ciri could be the one person powerful enough to oppose him directly.”

“I must admit this thought intrigues me as well,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “But where do you intend to start?”

“Before Ciri became involved with him, Geralt met Gaunter O’Dimm, as he currently calls himself, near Oxenfurt. Geralt was obliged to aid him in collecting the soul of a man named Olgierd von Everec. Shani here knows more about it than I do.”

Shani stepped a little closer. “After a bad harvest, the von Everecs fell on hard times, and the woman Olgierd had been betrothed to, Iris, was set to marry someone else, a Prince from Ofier. Olgierd met Gaunter O’Dimm in a tavern, and cast a curse without meaning to, transforming the prince into a giant, monstrous toad. I became involved when I came along as a medic with several soldiers who investigated the sewer where the monster made its lair. They all got killed, and that’s when Geralt showed up.”

“Why am I not surprised that the Witcher was involved in all this?”

“From what Geralt later told me, Olgierd von Everec made a pact with Gaunter O’Dimm several years ago, signed in blood by a crossroads at midnight. In return for restoring his fortune and social standing, and therefore his marriage to Iris, Olgierd promised O’Dimm his soul.”

“But it all went wrong,” said Yennefer. “Von Everec had to sacrifice his brother, and he also wished to live like there was no tomorrow, which O’Dimm twisted to give him a heart of stone, so that he no longer felt fear nor regret, but also no love, no concern for anyone. His marriage, for which he’d sacrificed everything, completely fell apart and his love for Iris withered and died. Geralt was asked to retrieve a blue rose that Olgierd had given her the day he left, and found that she had become a wraith, one who could enter an alternate world composed entirely of her paintings.”

Ida absorbed that for a second, nodding solemnly. “A truly sad tale. But what’s it got to do with the Elder Blood?”

“When she was told this story, Ciri postulated that Iris’ ability to travel to that world was similar to her powers. They likely activated thanks to O’Dimm’s influence.” She paused, touching a finger to her chin. “Oh. That’s what he meant.”

“What?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm found out I was planning this little excursion and paid me, Geralt, Triss, and Ciri a visit. He threatened terrible things, but Geralt managed to talk him into a deal where we would be allowed to seek out the answers we need, in exchange for besting a challenge set forth by O’Dimm. He told me I needed to confront an old ally and sacrifice myself to prevent a war, and to look for the flower that blooms after midnight.”

“But there are no flowers like that,” said Dandelion, just now finding something to say. “Unless… oh! Her name was Iris, and her abilities activated after her death. That’s what that means, right?”

Yennefer fixed him with a deadpan expression. “I didn’t think that needed spelling out, but congratulations on solving the mystery.”

“Bite me.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” she continued, turning to Ida. “You surely recall the point Sheala de Tancarville raised five years ago when Francesca detailed the story of the Elder Blood and its descendants to the Lodge. For almost a hundred year period, there was unchecked incest and secret affairs, resulting in untold bastards that the mages had no way of tracking down with any reliability. It’s possible, and in fact seems very likely, that Iris von Everec was a secret inheritor of the Elder Blood. After all, the whole thing did start in Redania.”

A hand went to her chin, and Ida glanced around the library, pivoting in a circle. “I see now. You want to use our resources to track down other lost Elder Blood heirs, in hopes that some sort of pattern will emerge.”

Yennefer nodded. “I don’t believe it’s an accident that Ciri got mixed up in all this. And if it’s not the first time he’s done this, we may be able to uncover a larger plan.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “I shall leave you to it. You will be notified when dinner is ready, and Francesca will join us then. Until then, _va faill._ ”

“ _Va faill_ , Aen Saevherne.”

When Ida was out of sight and her footsteps finally faded, Yennefer turned around to face her two companions. “Well, then. Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite things to do in fanfiction is pair up characters who never interacted much in the source material, but work surprisingly well together. Shani and Yennefer never actually met, but I think they'd have a lot to talk about, and I needed a character who'd already met Gaunter O'Dimm to expedite her explanation.
> 
> This chapter is mostly exposition and necessary set-up, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Next we'll be checking in on Triss and Avallac'h, another odd duo that strangely works.


	29. Hope Springs Eternal

On a high mountain overlooking Tir Ná Lia, an expansive villa rested just below the peak, coated in a blanket of pure white snow. A fire roared in the hearth, and windows as large as the walls themselves covered the side of the structure that faced out towards the valley below. It would have been impossible for any human architect to even imagine, much less design or construct. And yet it stood there, half of it jutting out over a narrow cliff that dropped off into snowy oblivion.

“Here we are,” said Avallac’h as he opened the door, guiding Triss Merigold inside. “As they say in your world, make yourself at home.”

She hurried inside, clutching the sides of the blanket in a death grip. She still hadn’t been given proper clothes, and had insisted on making the hike up here rather than let him teleport her, out of pure, obstinate stubbornness. She wanted the Aen Elle to see her walking free, after they had condemned her to that place for so long. She wanted Avallac’h to know that while she needed the information he had, she did not need his help with anything else.

The spell he had cast to keep her warm had made walking barefoot up a mountain in the snow no more difficult than strolling through a garden in summer. Triss knew how to cast a less powerful version of the same spell, but elven sages had much longer to practice than she did.

Admittedly, that did undercut her attempts to make it through this without his help, but at this point she didn’t care. The blanket was actually getting hot, so she dropped it on the floor and made her way to the fire. Avallac’h didn’t even spare a glance her way.

“I shall fetch some clothes for you,” he declared, walking towards another room. He returned a minute later, and returned with an armful of extravagant green robes.

Silently, Triss put them on, discovering in the process that they had been designed for someone with an even smaller figure than her. After a moment, however, the fabric began to shift in size, until it fit her form comfortably. She rolled her eyes. Of course elves had magic clothes.

Raising his hand, he recited an incantation, and the spell dropped. The fire was still warm enough, as were the robes. Triss sat down on the large fur rug that rested in front of the hearth, drawing her knees to her chest. After a few moments, Avallac’h sat down beside her.

The floors were mostly stone, with various rugs and tapestries strewn about the place. There was a surprising amount of wood, and although the place was adequately furnished, Triss had grown accustomed to sleeping on the ground. The vast windows along the far wall looked down over Tir Ná Lia, which sparkled with beauty, obscuring its dark nature. She returned her gaze to the fire.

“Not where I pictured you taking me.”

“Were you perhaps expecting some dark sanctum deep within the mountain, filled with traps and golems? Because I do have plenty of those. But here in this world, there is no need to hide.”

She closed her eyes and declined her head. “None of this is what I imagined. Ciri sent me here and I didn’t… I thought I had a plan. But it all happened so fast, and before I knew it I was in that cell. It’s been so long that half of what I remember feels like I read it in a book.”

“I apologize,” said the elf. “I had a vision regarding Zirael, and I knew that you would be arriving. But I didn’t know when, and by the time I learned what happened to you it had already been several months.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said, deflated. “I was the one who insisted she send me here without any idea of how I was going to find you or who might want to capture me. I’m lucky they didn’t just kill me.”

“As I told you, Ge’els had you imprisoned because he feared what might happen if those who remain of the _dearg ruadhri_ got a hold of you. The political situation right now is… complicated.”

Triss chuckled darkly. “I’ll bet. How are you even allowed to walk around free when you masterminded Eredin’s death?”

“Because Ge’els was complicit in that plot as well, by refusing to supply reinforcements. Eredin is now remembered as a traitor who assassinated our old king and seized power for himself. But like any fallen ruler, there are still those who support his ideology, and wish to return to how things were under his rule. Your imprisonment was intended to keep you out of their hands.”

“Okay, but why strip me naked and throw me in a freezing cell?” she rebutted. “I get that elves have no love for humans, but that’s a pretty fucked up way of keeping someone safe.”

“I agree, which is why I petitioned for you to be released into my custody. You must remember, even those elves who support the new regime held much admiration for Eredin, and despise humans on the whole. If you had been placed under formal protection instead of thrown in prison, they would not have been pleased.”

“Well fuck them,” she said. “I didn’t come here to get involved in your politics. I’m here because Ciri’s in more trouble than ever before.”

“I’m aware. The vision I mentioned told me exactly who has taken an interest in her.”

“Is that why you didn’t just leave me to rot? Can’t imagine you caring much about a human otherwise.”

“An accurate assessment. I doubt you care much about the fate of a single elf either.”

“Depends on the elf.”

She saw the barest hint of a smirk form on his lips.

“At any rate, I’ve come all this way. I suppose I should at least tell you what I know.”

Avallac’h nodded. “I’m listening.”

“Ciri’s been bound in service to a being named Gaunter O’Dimm, also known as Master Mirror, also known as the Man of Glass. I met him at a ball Ciri was throwing in order to fulfill the wish of a woman named Mistle. Apparently Mistle and Ciri were close a few years ago, before she died. I don’t know how, but Gaunter O’Dimm brought her back to life, and got Ciri to serve as his proxy in exchange for saving her life. If Ciri fulfills all three wishes, he gets to claim Mistle’s soul.”

“A rather roundabout way of doing things, wouldn’t you say? If she was already dead, taking her soul shouldn’t have proven much of a challenge.”

“I considered that,” she replied. “And the only explanation I can come up with is that Ciri herself was the real target. The only problem is I have no idea what his plan could be.”

“I assume you wish to free Zirael of this obligation?”

“In a way. Geralt’s plan is for Ciri to challenge Gaunter O’Dimm to a battle of wits after fulfilling all three wishes. But Yennefer and I are trying to find another way. Which is why I’m here talking to you. ”

It was silent for several moments as Avallac’h processed that, holding a finger to his chin as he stared into the flames. Finally he turned to face her, his frosty blue irises reflecting the brilliant orange of the fire. “This is even worse than I feared. I knew the Man of Glass had taken an interest, but if he’s bound her by contract already…”

“I did my best to research him, but I didn’t come up with anything other than what Geralt already knew. All I have are my own theories.”

“Discovering even that much about him is no small feat. If you’d like to share your theories, I may be able to shed some light on a few of them.”

“Okay then.” She breathed in deeply. "Let’s start with the basics. Is he a demon?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

Avallac’h adopted a more formal posture, sitting upright as he replied.

"Before the Conjunction of the Spheres, there existed a race of beings, their true name long forgotten, who could traverse time and space at will, and commanded absolute power over all creation. They are as mysterious to the Aen Elle as we are to you. But we do know of a few."

"A few? You mean there are more like him?"

"Several. And not all are malevolent. There are two more that occupy the world of the Aen Seidhe, though they don't usually take corporeal form. You know them as Melitele and Freya."

Triss sat there, stunned. "So he's a god?"

"Effectively. A profoundly evil one at that. His control over the Power is matched only by others of his race."

"But he told me he doesn't use magic."

"What is magic, aside from drawing on the energy that underlies all existence and using it to manipulate reality? We're all capable of it, to varying degrees. But the being you know as Gaunter O'Dimm has such a staggering command over this power that he is effectively omnipotent."

She let that sink in. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Certainly."

"You're the foremost expert on the Elder Blood. Is it possible that Gaunter O'Dimm had some part in things going the way they did?"

The elf stared at her for several moments. "I assume your theory is based not only on the similarities between his power and Zirael's, but also the misery inherited by Lara Dorren's entire line?"

Triss nodded.

"Simply put, we have no way of knowing, not unless he tells you himself. Although it would explain a few things."

"Such as?"

"As I said, everyone draws on the Power. It's only a question of degree. By selectively breeding those with the greatest aptitude, the Aen Elle hoped to produce a bloodline that would have absolute command over not just time and space, but eventually reality itself. Lara Dorren was the closest we ever got. But I confess even I am not completely sure of how she became the first Source."

"You were trying to build your own god?"

"The project wasn't directly inspired by these entities, but it may well have attracted their attention. The Man of Glass especially, since he took the most interest in the manipulation of time."

“Do you know his real name?”

Avallac’h shook his head. “None do who are still alive and sane. True names have power, and these entities guard them fiercely, putting countermeasures in place in the event that someone discovers them. Usually in the form of a curse. Even if you were to learn it, that wouldn’t be enough to stop him.”

“Then what is?”

“The Witcher has a more sensible plan than you realize,” he replied. “As a being whose entire modus operandi centers around ensnaring people in contracts with ironic twists and catches, the Man of Glass is on some level bound by his own rules. The reason for this is because these beings split up their domains long ago, and promised not to interfere with one another. His domain is trickery, and he cannot intrude upon those of others unless his victim agrees to it in the form of a contract.”

“Hence why he tempts them with a wish, then ruins their life.”

“If you asked him I’m sure he’d tell you that they ruin their own lives by wording their wishes poorly, or desiring the wrong thing in the first place,” he said. “But even were nothing to go wrong, in the end he still collects their soul. Though I suspect the endgame isn’t nearly as fulfilling to him as the process leading up to it.”

Triss shook her head. “This is fascinating, but how does it help us defeat him? How can you win at a game that’s rigged for failure?”

“According to legend, one man did manage it, though his name has been lost to history.” He stared at the fire. “As terrible as he is, the Man of Glass is sporting. He views the whole thing as a game, and it wouldn’t be a worthy challenge if there weren’t some way for him to lose. Victory isn’t as satisfying without risk.”

Narrowing her eyes, she glared straight ahead. “Before I left, Gaunter O’Dimm gave me, Geralt, and Yennefer a challenge to overcome. He told me I had to make my way back home through the snake that swallows its own tail, and that I would have to choose between the bird and the cage.”

“Ah. I suspected it might be so. Travelling the Spiral is no simple task, even for the Aen Elle. The navigators of the Wild Hunt are mostly dead, and I doubt that those who remain would be willing to help.”

“Ciri mentioned she got out through a lake, with the help of a unicorn,” she said. “I saw that same unicorn when Geralt and Yennefer were dying, and Ciri took them to the Isle of Avalon. Maybe I could get help from them.”

“Without the power of the Gate of Worlds, it wouldn’t be possible.” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Besides, there are no unicorns left.”

“What?”

He turned his face towards her. “After Zirael escaped and Eredin ascended to power, he devoted even more resources to the war against the unicorns in retribution for showing her the way out. The losses became so heavy on both sides that eventually the unicorns retreated to another world, and haven’t been seen here since.”

Triss slumped her shoulders before collapsing onto her back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “Well, fuck.”

“Fear not. I have a solution to this problem, but it will take time. Meanwhile, you should get some rest. I have prepared a bedchamber for you. You are welcome to it whenever you are finished here.”

She nodded, her mental energy drained so thoroughly that she didn’t even feel despair. Just numb.

Without another word, Avallac’h rose, then left the room.

* * *

Triss wasn’t sure how many hours had passed when she awoke, as if her notions of time meant anything in this place. Somehow she had been moved to a bedchamber, which was incredibly spacious, warmed by its own fire in the corner. She lay flat on her back beneath a thick blanket, staring up at the ceiling.

‘ _Well, the only thing that’s really changed is that I’m not cold anymore_.’

Even with her circumstances improved, Triss was still stranded in another world, with little hope of ever getting back. Even in her lowest moments hiding from the Temple Guard, she could at least take comfort in the thought that things would change, that she would be reunited with the ones she loved. And that had come true, in a way. Perhaps not exactly how she wanted it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

By this point she was over Geralt. If he and Yennefer wanted to spend their retirement in Toussaint while the rest of them did the work of cleaning up after the war, then fine. They’d done more than enough. But like a snake shedding its skin, her feelings of envy had twisted and changed form. She didn’t covet Geralt himself now. She was envious of what he had—and now there was almost no chance that she would ever have something like that for herself.

Her relationship with Philippa consisted almost entirely of attending parties and having mindless sex. Neither of them really cared for each other on a deeper level, and that had been what attracted her to the arrangement in the first place. But the fact that Triss hadn’t even bothered to tell her where she was going said everything.

Still, now that she was no longer freezing, other things were starting to heat up. She had gone an ungodly amount of time without sex, and even thinking bitterly about it was enough that she had become, unfortunately, wetter than a river in a thunderstorm.

Grumbling, Triss set about taking matters into her own hands, literally.

Stripping off the robes, she remained beneath the blankets both to stay warm and to provide plausible deniability if Avallac’h were to walk in on her. Though somehow she doubted the elf would even blink.

She slid two fingers in, pumping back and forth as they encountered no resistance. Her other hand massaged her clit, and she inhaled sharply as the pleasure began to pulse through her. Her mind provided images like dreams, leaping from one to the other by random association. It hardly mattered. At this point she could masturbate to the thought of anybody.

In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but draw comparisons to those lonely nights she spent at Kaer Morhen, silently begging Geralt to come to her. He never did back then, but years later she was able to claim him as her own, his amnesia providing what she had thought of as a clean slate. All she had to do was lie to him about Yennefer. It made perfect sense at the time, but now she only felt an overpowering sense of shame.

That shame did not interrupt her libido in the slightest, and she pictured those romantic liaisons as she inserted a third finger down below. She bucked her hips upward, cupping one breast in her left hand and running her thumb back and forth over a nipple that had grown stiff as a nail. After a minute or so she had upgraded to four. She stopped just shy of shoving her entire fist in there, which was also where she drew the line with Philippa.

Things had been different with Philippa. There was no romance to worry about; no deeper relationship. Just fucking like animals. Working with the Lodge had reignited some old passions, and they fell back into familiar patterns. But things between them were never meant to last. She doubted Philippa would cry any tears over their parting, even if she did still have eyes.

She switched focus to her clit, rubbing back and forth in a frenzy as she tried to keep herself from wailing. She felt her lip split from biting it so hard, but at this point the pain only added to the experience. It made her feel alive after all that time spent freezing to the point where she couldn’t feel anything. She mewled and groaned, working her way closer to climax. As she did, an unexpected face popped into her mind.

“Yennefer…” she moaned, imagining what it would have been like if she and the raven-haired sorceress had tried having a go at each other instead of fussing over Geralt for so many years. Would it have been rough and passionate? Soft and gentle? Or some combination of both? She would never know for certain, but that didn’t stop her from sliding her fingers back inside herself and pretending they weren’t her own.

It took a few more minutes, and in that time her mind cycled between those three faces and a dozen others, but eventually Triss achieved her goal. The orgasm ripped through her, her heart thundering as the tiny fires that burned beneath her skin became a raging inferno. She kept going, the slick fluids bursting past her fingers, and she remembered too late why it was a bad idea to masturbate between sheets that one then had to sleep in.

Regardless, she collapsed back, and a cool relief spread through her like water, and for the moment, she was content.

* * *

“Sheets need changing,” she said to Avallac’h as she emerged into the main chamber and found him sitting at a table, looking out over the valley below.

He glanced her way, not even raising an eyebrow, before motioning to the table with his head. “I assume you must be hungry.”

The table was filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables, some of which she recognized, others which must have been native to this world. She saw no meat, but then she should have expected that. Elves weren’t big on hunting or keeping livestock. Not that all of them were averse to eating meat; they just couldn’t be bothered to catch it themselves.

Regardless, she surged over to the table and began devouring it all. He occasionally glanced at her, but mostly read the book that he held in his hands.

“You know,” she said between bites, “I used to be so worried about how much I ate. I actually prided myself on maintaining a twenty-two inch waistline. But now I couldn’t give less of a shit about maintaining my figure.”

“I see,” he replied after a few moments. “Actual starvation does tend to ruin the concept of dieting.”

“I don’t know how things are in your world.” She took a long swig of a very sweet, nectary juice that accompanied the food. “But mages where I come from are vain, judgmental, and utterly obsessed with their appearance. It’s why we all drank elixirs of youth and had our appearances altered with magic before being allowed to study. Did you know Yennefer had a hunchback as a child? Because the other mages never let her forget it.”

She crushed a pear in her hand. “All that cruelty over something so inconsequential. After the battle of Sodden Hill I was burned so badly I barely even had skin, much less hair. They even put my name on the memorial because no one recognized me. But they couldn’t let Triss Merigold live the rest of her life as a disfigured freak, so they restored me to my former glory. Almost.”

“Almost?”

Triss began to part her robes, revealing her chest. Avallac’h didn’t even blink.

“I don’t know why I even maintain this anymore,” she said, waving her hand over the valley between her breasts. The glamour faded, revealing deep, jagged scars like cracks left behind by an earthquake. “I guess I just like wearing low-cut gowns too much, even though I swore I never would again.”

He regarded the sight dispassionately, as casually as if he were still reading his book. “I must confess I’m not sure what difference that makes. Zirael grew self-conscious over her scar, but eventually grew to accept it as part of her.”

“I’d love to say I was able to do the same,” she said, not bothering to close her robe. She wouldn’t be able to stir anything within the elf even if she stood before him completely nude, and she’d abandoned her modesty back in that prison. “But her scar is on her face. She can’t help but show it to the world. Me… I have the option of hiding it.” Triss frowned. “And Gaunter O’Dimm knew that.”

Avallac’h quirked an eyebrow.

“After the ball, I stayed up all night researching him,” she explained, taking a bite out of an apple. “Somehow he got wind of it and showed up at Geralt and Yennefer’s vineyard, then threatened all of us by saying he’d revert us back to our original forms. I know I shouldn’t care so much about what I look like, but… I’d do anything not to be in that much agony again.”

“Even travel to another world with no sure way of getting back?”

She nodded. “Geralt was the one who came up with the idea of the challenges. If I fail, then Gaunter O’Dimm gets to follow through on what he promised.”

“And if you succeed?”

“I get to tell Ciri what you told me. After that… I guess that depends on what Geralt and Yennefer learn.”

“While we’re on the subject of vanity,” he said, “it has never ceased to amaze me how you humans cling to the belief that your species has any sort of relevance in the cosmic sense. All of those mages you mentioned, with the power to reshape reality if they so desired, largely used that power to gain status and admiration. Your bards and storytellers weave endless tales which assert your importance, that claim being human is somehow superior to any other form of being.”

Triss stabbed a carrot with a fork and scowled. “And you think elves are any different? You’re even more self-important than we are.”

“There’s truth in that,” he admitted. “But I did not mean it as an insult. Underneath all their potential for darkness, humans have an even greater propensity for hope. It’s what’s kept your species going in spite of all your shortcomings.”

“What amazes me,” she said, “is how even your compliments sound like insults.”

“Apologies. But you must understand, in comparison to the vastness of time and the universe, we are all of us insignificant parts of a much larger whole. It’s been one and a half millennia since the Conjunction of the Spheres, but have you any concept of how much older the universe is than that?”

“I’m not Ciri,” she replied, glaring. “Don’t try and impress me with knowledge that sorceresses learn in their first year of study.”

“I don’t doubt that you know it,” he said. “The point I wish to make is that viewed from a larger perspective, no one’s life is inherently significant. It only becomes meaningful because we decide to give it meaning.”

Triss groaned. “Now I understand why Geralt hated talking to you.”

“All I’m saying is,” he continued, “that there are more important things at stake than physical appearances.”

“And you think I don’t know that? For fuck’s sake, I’m just trying to have a conversation with you!” She stood up and closed her robe as she suddenly realized how cold she was. “Not everything has to be about the fate of the universe! But you wouldn’t know anything about actually relating to somebody, would you? You’re too busy acting like you’re the smartest person in the room!”

He stared back at her, his face like polished stone.

“You know what, fuck this.” She began marching out of the room, back to the bedchamber. “Enjoy your book!”

With that she slammed the door, leaving a very confused elven sage staring after her.

* * *

A short while later, a knock sounded against the bedroom door. “Miss Merigold?”

Triss sat there fuming, glaring at the door as though doing so would set it on fire. “What?”

“I…” For some reason, the normally unflappable elf hesitated. She couldn’t see his face, but his voice told her everything. “I wish to apologize for earlier. I’ve clearly upset you, though I’m not sure why.”

Rolling her eyes, she shifted further back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged as she continued to glare. “Fine then,” she said. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Avallac’h entered the room, hands held behind his back.

“I’ve never known elves to apologize,” she began, still glowering. “And the fact that you have no idea why I’m angry tells me you don’t actually feel sorry. You just can’t imagine a world where someone doesn’t want to listen to your bullshit.”

He quirked his head curiously to the side, but maintained that neutral, stone-faced expression.

“In spite of all the reasons I shouldn’t, I was actually trying to open up to you,” she continued. “Trying to have a normal, relatable conversation where we share things about ourselves. Like regular people. And then you had to go talking about the vastness of the universe, and how nothing means anything, and blah, blah, blah. That might impress everyone else you’re used to dealing with, but I just don’t give a shit.”

“Ah. I understand now. You’re upset because I changed the subject.”

Triss laughed spitefully and shook her head. “You still don’t get it. See, I grew to think of Ciri as a younger sister when she was growing up, and do you know the one thing she hated? Absolutely despised like nothing else?”

He said nothing.

“Being talked down to,” she answered after a moment. “She hated it when people thought she needed to have her hand held through every little thing. We have that in common, she and I.”

Triss stood, marching up to him and stabbing a finger into his chest. “I am not some lost little girl who needs you to explain things to me when I didn’t even ask you. You already told me everything I really needed to know from you, and now you want me to just sit on my hands and wait while you solve this problem for me? That’s not how this is supposed to work!”

“For the record,” he replied after a minute, “I was merely letting you rest after your ordeal. I’ve no intention of excluding you from this. I apologize if my actions gave a different impression.”

“I don’t even know what I want from you anymore,” she grumbled, spinning around and pressing her palms hard against her eyes. “I don’t know why I thought you’d care. You’re only helping me because of Ciri. And you don’t even care about her! You’ve only ever been worried about her power falling into the wrong hands.”

Avallac’h’s expression didn’t change. “I understand the desire to seek companionship after spending such a long time alone. But you led me to believe that all you required was knowledge relating to the Man of Glass, and assistance in overcoming his challenge. If you’re seeking anything else, I’m afraid I cannot help you with that.”

“I’m not asking for companionship!” she roared, whirling around to face him. “You’ll obviously never give a shit about me and I don’t need you to! But it’d be nice if you could just listen to me once in a while without waxing philosophical! I got enough of that from human mages!”

The fire in the hearth flared higher, and sparks floated slowly downward in the space between them. Time’s flow seemed to halt for a few moments as they slowly faded, burning out into nothingness as quickly as they had appeared.

“If I understand you correctly,” he said, slow and measured, “you want the freedom to speak your mind without being told what to do.”

“Exactly!”

He nodded. “That can be arranged. From now on I will only provide advice if you request it.”

Triss sighed and collapsed back on the bed. “Thank you.”

Turning to leave, he stopped at the threshold and looked back over his shoulder. “I am aware that my demeanor can give the impression of apathy. But I promise you that I am not completely heartless. Only practical. When you’ve lived as long as I have, passion becomes much more difficult to feel.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t,” she replied. “You just don’t want to. You’d rather have a heart of ice than risk it getting shattered again.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, then stepped out of the chamber, closing the door behind him.

* * *

When Triss ventured out of the bedchamber a few hours later, the elven sage was nowhere to be seen. Good.

His entire attitude towards her was nothing like she had expected, and had been putting her on edge the entire time she’d been here. He’d been treating her with far more hospitality than Ciri had led her to expect, to the point where she almost wished he had left her back in that prison cell, if only because then she wouldn’t have to wonder what his ulterior motive was. Sages _always_ had at least one of those.

It obviously wasn’t her stunning good looks. Once elves reached a certain age, sex lost all appeal and they devoted themselves to becoming ever more insufferable. That should have brought her relief, but it also meant she had no one to keep her warm at night except her own hands. Maybe she should have paid more attention when studying tactile illusions.

And why was he letting her have free rein? He’d set no limitations on where she was allowed to wander, and laid down no rules governing her conduct. Even more strangely, he’d actually yielded to her demands to be treated like an equal, when she’d never known males of her own species to acquiesce so quickly and politely.

Try as she might, she couldn’t identify anything sinister in his demeanor, but something was just a bit off. No elven sage was this helpful without wanting something in return, and her struggle to identify what that might be was slowly driving her mad. Maybe that was the goal. Maybe he wanted to watch her go crazy.

“I need a fucking drink.”

Even worse than the sexual frustration was the fact that she’d been forcibly sober for so long she barely even remembered what alcohol tasted like. It was a rather petty thing to be upset about given the magnitude of her mission here, but Triss had lived an entire lifetime putting the wellbeing of others before herself. Was she not allowed a selfish thought now and then? Yennefer had even encouraged her to do so the night of the ball.

As she went in search of wherever an elven sage might keep his liquor, Yennefer remained at the forefront of her thoughts, somewhat unusually for someone she’d spent so long trying to forget that she’d hurt. She had no right to expect the normally vindictive, vengeful sorceress to forgive her after everything she’d done, and yet that forgiveness had been given so freely that she’d first been convinced it was a trick, just like she was now puzzled by how Avallac’h practically laid down a red carpet in front of her.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she’d gone so long without feeling as though she deserved anything—even something as simple as basic respect—that she had no idea how to deal with it when it was given to her by people from whom she had no reason to expect it.

“Aha!” She found a small kitchen entrance adjacent to the main chamber, down a small hallway. It contained various foodstuffs, mostly the fruits and vegetables she’d been provided earlier, but no alcohol. She scowled.

“Does he even have a wine cellar?”

Returning to the main hallway, she headed towards a three-way intersection at the end, spotting open doors along the way. One contained a small library, while another held potions, notebooks, and various experiments. One beaker contained an actively bubbling substance, left entirely unattended. He’d been here only a short while ago.

Turning left, she found more rooms, whose doors were closed and locked. When that proved a dead end, she made her way back down the other path, which ended in a large, domed chamber that contained the largest, strangest astrolabe she’d ever seen. Various pieces of metal were suspended in the air, depicting a slowly rotating solar system orbiting a sun. Triss concluded that it must depict the larger cosmos of this world, and not the one she came from.

She continued to the other side of the chamber, by now realizing that the complex extended deep into the mountain, the villa where she had been taken serving only as its outer front. It had to be centuries old, maybe even millennia. Too large to have always been occupied by just one elven sage. Though she had to admit: it made for an excellent refuge.

Avallac’h had made no attempts to hide the fact that while he now walked free, he was no longer accepted in this world as he once was. She’d have wondered why he stayed if she hadn’t been known to stick around where she wasn’t wanted on more than one occasion.

Passing through a large set of double doors, she found another intersection just ahead, and more doorways. Dismissing the flame from her hand, she let the sconces light the way, bathing the hallway in pale green light. She wondered if Ciri had ever seen this place.

As if summoned by that thought, she heard childish laughter down the left hallway, and feet pattering by. As the echoes reached her, she turned that way and followed as best she could, though by the time she located the origin of the sound, whoever made it was long gone.

She heard it again, a ghostly cackle down a hallway to her right. Again she followed, holding her hand at the ready as she hugged the wall more tightly. At this point she wasn’t sure if the source of the laughter was dangerous, much less real, but pressed on all the same. At least it might make for better company than sitting around with Avallac’h.

After a few minutes, she became thoroughly lost. The laughter echoed all around her, and she clutched her head, trying to drown it out as she spun around looking for the source.

A hand touched her shoulder, and Triss reacted instinctively, flaring up her hands and whirling to face her assailant, who stood there with his arms crossed as the fire broke against a magic barrier. Avallac’h raised an eyebrow, and she sighed in exasperation.

“If the next words out of your mouth are that I shouldn’t have gone exploring, I swear I’m gonna…”

“To the contrary. It’s good that you’re walking around on your own. That means your strength is recovered.”

“Okay, what’s the deal?” she screeched, and he leaned away from the sound. “Even when you were helping us fight the Wild Hunt, you were never this nice to anyone, not even Ciri! I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly you want from me and I still don’t have a fucking clue! What’s going on?”

He didn’t respond, not even bothering to stare at her like she’d gone crazy.

“Well?”

“I’d like to congratulate you, Miss Merigold. I used to think of humans as predictable; easy to understand. But you continue to be full of contradictions. It’s fascinating, really.”

“Nobody, especially not an elven sage, is this accommodating to someone like me unless they want something in return,” she responded, low and cold. “Just tell me what it is.”

Avallac’h regarded her curiously, then the barest hint of a smile began to form before disappearing as if it had never been there.

“For the moment, it will suffice for you to follow me,” he finally answered. “There’s someone you ought to meet.”

* * *

It was a small room, at least when compared to the rest of the mountain villa. The first thing Triss noticed was that the walls were decorated in a way unlike the rest of the space, with white paint sketching out floral designs that, while not terribly sophisticated, were beautiful in their own right.

The furniture in here was smaller, and she could see a small figure sitting at a desk, silently writing with a quill. She stopped after hearing them approach, then turned around. Triss sent an inquisitive glance Avallac’h’s way, but he merely motioned towards the girl.

She was very small, with wiry brown hair and a frame so thin she’d have suspected Avallac’h of starving the girl if not for the fact that otherwise she appeared to be in perfect health. She was dressed in robes just as extravagant as the ones Triss had been given, and was looking at her curiously. At least this answered where the laughter had been coming from.

Triss moved forward and bent down, mustering her largest smile.

“Hi there! What’s your name?”

The girl stared up at her, wide-eyed, but did not respond.

“According to her mother, her name is Lyas’sal,” said Avallac’h. “Don’t let her fool you; she’s perfectly fluent in the common tongue and both versions of Elder Speech. But she dislikes strangers.” The girl turned her attention to him and he gave her a slight nod, at which point she left the room, disappearing into a smaller chamber in the back.

Triss rose, narrowing her eyes at him as she folded her arms over her chest. “How old is she?”

“Six.”

“If she had a mother to name her, how did she get here?”

“Surely you’re familiar with old wives’ tales about the fair folk demanding a firstborn as repayment for a favor?”

It was more surprise than anger that flashed behind her eyes, though she still stared at him in horror. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Her mother was not fortunate in life. She wound up pregnant, living on the edge of the woods eating scraps to survive with no one to support her, though she came from a noble house, which disowned her once they discovered she was to give birth to a bastard. She ran after learning what they planned for the child.”

“Whose bastard?”

“It hardly matters. However, this child’s lineage is special. If you trace it far enough, it all leads back to Lara Dorren.”

Triss crossed her arms and cocked one hip to the side. “So you found a pregnant woman at the end of her rope, and offered her a way to get her life back, as long as she gave you the baby?”

“Precisely so. She’d grown to despise the child anyway for where the ordeal had led her. When she was born, I was there to collect, and she handed her over without a fuss. I’ve been raising her here ever since.”

“So the whole time the Wild Hunt was after Ciri, you had another child of the Elder Blood here with you all along?”

Avallac’h shook his head. “Not exactly. As I told you, time moves differently in the world of the Aen Elle. I didn’t acquire her until after Eredin’s demise, and she wasn’t born within even your lifetime. I found her in the past, and brought her here.”

“How far in the past?”

“Three hundred and twenty-seven years, by your reckoning of time. In your world, her mother is long dead.”

Clutching the sides of her head, Triss sat down and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to comprehend that.

“But why go to all that trouble? I thought after Ciri eliminated the White Frost nobody would have any use for the Elder Blood anymore.”

“Then why did she attract the interest of the Man of Glass? I told you: I’ve been preparing for your arrival. If you are to overcome his challenge and travel the Spiral, we must use a Source.”

“Wait, _what_?!” She stood, sweeping her arm out horizontally. “We are _not_ using a child! Didn’t you learn your lesson with Ciri?”

“It depends on which lesson you mean. For example, I learned that training a child of the Elder Blood from birth is, while more time-consuming, far easier than waiting on one to be delivered by a prophecy not fully understood. Rest assured, she will come to understand her powers, especially with your help.”

Triss blinked. “You’re not seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“And yet I am. I cannot guide you back to your correct time and space with any reliability, and the unicorns are gone. Even if we were to take a portal, there is no guarantee that it would lead back to your world. Especially given Master Mirror’s penchant for misleading his victims. This is the only way.”

Turning away, she glared at the floor for half a minute. Finally she sighed. It wasn’t exactly the first time she’d been asked to do this. “How long would it take?”

“She’s already made magnificent progress. I suspect no more than six months.”

“Six months? That’s way too late to help Ciri!”

“Is it? You’ve already been here for ten. Remember, the Elder Blood controls not only space, but time as well. In the end it won’t matter how much time you spend in this world; you’ll return at the precise moment you’re meant to.”

“I’d better.” She turned away, placing her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “You said she was born three hundred twenty-seven years ago, right?”

He nodded.

“If you’ve been able to change the past like that this whole time, why not change everything else?”

“To be clear, I didn’t change the past,” he said. “This was always meant to happen. Time curves in on itself, like a snake devouring its own tail. Sometimes the past is just a future we haven’t reached yet, and occasionally you can see that the marks you’ve yet to make have already echoed down through generations.”

Triss stared at him flatly. “I’ve decided I hate time travel.”

“Zirael often tired of this subject as well, though I’m not sure why. I’ve always found the concept of seeing the effects left behind by one’s future self to be quite fascinating.”

“Enough. So you need my help training the girl?”

“In a sense. I’m more than able to handle the formal instruction, but I’ve been told that I can be rather…”

“Emotionally unavailable?”

“‘Colder than a witch’s tits’ is how Zirael put it.”

Triss chuckled. “I get it. You need me to show her what human emotion is.”

“If you would. It will help greatly with the stress she’s likely to endure.”

“One condition.” She raised a finger. “You don’t push her. If I feel like she’s had enough, you’ll respect that and give her the time she needs.”

“Of course. I can see this decision is already paying off.”

“Don’t mention it.” She squinted, considering something. “Lyas’sal. That means ‘oath,’ right?”

“Roughly, though it has other meanings as well. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” She composed her features, then looked at him seriously. “I’m ready to get started if you are.”

“Of course. Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a chapter that I had a pretty clear idea of when I started publishing this story nine months ago. Now that I'm finally writing it, it's gotten much longer and more complicated than I originally thought it would be, and I had to find a good break point because otherwise it would just be too large. I used to think of word count as a high score, but regulating chapter length allows for a more cohesive experience, and also means I can update more often.
> 
> Triss is a character whose appeal I didn't really understand until I read the books. The version seen in the games has had her edges sanded off, and is presented as a "good girl" alternative to Yennefer without much acknowledgment of all the times she majorly fucked up and did questionable things. It's very puzzling because those things don't make her any worse of a person than Yennefer or Geralt, neither of whom are paragons of morality. Since this story is about exploring people's dark sides, I wanted to explore a version of Triss who's had enough time alone to really reflect on her past and what it means. I'm still not completely sure where that will end up, but I'm satisfied by what I've put in this chapter.
> 
> I also realized that there hasn't been a sexually explicit scene in this fic since the very first chapter. This one kind of just fell into place.
> 
> This marks the end of this mini-arc, and we'll be checking in with Geralt, Yennefer, and Triss later on, to see where these revelations lead them.


	30. Broken Wing, Empty Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains suicide ideation and discussion of suicide. If that’s a sensitive topic for you, proceed with caution.

Rosa var Attre stared into the water, running her hand from side to side, creating small waves that rippled out a short distance before assimilating back into the larger whole. Though the moon had risen, the lake remained dark and obscure, reflecting images like glass, but without so much clarity. In its depths she saw an inverted world, filled with drowning stars. She hardly recognized the woman staring back at her.

What was the point of it all? Like mice that scampered across a prairie at night only to be snatched by an owl, human lives could change course so abruptly it hardly seemed worth making the journey in the first place. How was one to cope when currents had swept them down the wrong branch of the river, with no way of returning to their previous path?

Her legs offered no help as she shuffled closer to where the water met the shore, submerging her hand even further. Rosa scowled at her reflection, pondering what she had been told about looking to the water’s surface for answers as opposed to the heavens above. But for now she would rather remain ignorant than look up towards the truth. Why, when it would bring her no comfort?

She stared deeper into the dark abyss, still weaving her hand back and forth.

And she remembered.

* * *

“Rosa! You’re awake, thank the gods!”

She hardly felt her sister crash against her, bending down over the bed as she captured Rosa in a deep embrace. She couldn’t even muster the energy to return the hug, not that it appeared to matter to Edna in the slightest.

Oddly for a dream, Rosa remembered everything with perfect clarity, when normally the details drained from her mind like water through a sieve. Her sister released her, and she lay there, her thoughts still trapped in fog.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed in which she lay, next to a middle-aged blonde woman in doctor’s garb, and a woman with short dark hair that she recognized after a few moments’ contemplation.

Rosa pulled back violently, dragging herself further towards the wall. Only her arms responded, but she barely noticed in her panic. “What is _she_ doing here?”

“Calm down sister; it’s alright.” Her sister was at her side in an instant, guiding her gently back down into her previous position. “She’s here to help.”

“But she’s—”

“What?” Fringilla Vigo placed her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I apologize for my sister,” said Edna. “Recent events have left her rather wary of sorceresses, particularly members of the Lodge.”

“I’m no longer a member,” Fringilla insisted. “I’m only here because the Ambassador requested my services, and it gave me the opportunity to visit Anarietta.”

The tension left Rosa’s body, and it was only now that her attention turned to her legs.

“Yes, about those,” said the sorceress, as if reading her mind. Perhaps not so hypothetically, either. “They’re beyond my ability to repair. If I attempted to re-fuse your spine the strain would likely make things worse, or even kill you. I’m only here to teleport you.”

Rosa blinked, the words not hitting as hard as they should. “Teleport?”

Her father bowed his head and stepped closer. “My darling Rosa. I am so sorry this ordeal has befallen you. I will not rest until the one who inflicted it upon you is brought to justice.” He took his hand in hers. “The sorceress here will be transporting you to a place where you can heal, put things in perspective. Things may never be the same again, but you’ll be well cared for, and it’s closer to Novigrad than this place, so I’ll be able to visit you often. As will your sister.”

She stared at him, numb.

“You’re to recover at the Temple of Melitele in Ellander,” Edna clarified, glancing sidelong at the doctor. “I’ve heard it’s quite lovely.”

“I can only teleport you one at a time, a few minutes apart,” said Fringilla. “There are limits on such magic, at least if you want to use it safely. But the staff at the temple has been informed that you’re coming, and your father and sister will be along shortly. Is that agreeable?”

Rosa nodded, not saying a word.

“Very well then. Now, this is going to be a little uncomfortable, but it’s necessary so you won’t jostle around on your way there.”

At her signal, a pair of large orderlies entered the room, removing the sheets and lifting her body up just enough to slide a long wooden board underneath, with leather straps corresponding to her chest, waist, and legs. They fastened the restraints, and Rosa couldn’t even bring herself to be frightened. She had no illusions as to what the straps were for.

“Now hold still, and try to think pleasant thoughts.”

That got a response from her, though only a dark chuckle emerged.

Power crackled as the sorceress concentrated, and then the world around her disappeared.

* * *

The water looked so inviting, even at the witching hour when the bottom was occluded by the utter absence of light. It stretched on forever, a world with no boundaries. She’d never found the darkness frightening, even as a child. Things that seemed hideous in the daylight were more palatable when evening came, their worst elements concealed by shadow.

If she were to fall in now, she would be at the bottom before anyone could spot her, and then she’d be hidden for the night. Only when her corpse bobbed to the top in the morning would anyone realize where she’d gone.

It was calling to her, in its own way. All she had to do was lean a little further…

“I do hope you’re not planning a dip at this hour. The water’s dreadfully cold.”

Rosa snapped out of her trance, whipping her head around to see a woman, clad head to toe in white robes, a hooded veil obscuring her face. Her voice was not familiar.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I could very well ask you the same thing,” the woman replied with an audible smirk. The gossamer fabric of her garments billowed gently behind her in the moonlight, and she took a seat next to Rosa. The mud was thick this close to the water, but she didn’t seem concerned about the stains. “Although I think I know the answer. Don’t you just love how it never seems to end? Stretching out towards an infinite horizon.”

Slowly, Rosa nodded. “It’s like it goes on forever.”

“Magdalene,” she said after a moment, stretching out her hand.

After a moment, she removed her arm from the water and gripped the offered hand in hers, then shook. “Rosa. Are you with the temple? I haven’t seen you before.”

“You’ve not been here long,” the woman pointed out. “People come and go from the temple. It’s how life is around here.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Again, she could hear the smile in the woman’s voice. “Yes. I guess you could say I represent the temple.”

Rosa huffed and returned to staring at the lake. “It hardly makes a difference.”

“On that we agree. People place too much stock in their station, and that of others. What’s the difference between a king and a beggar? Only one of them is honest about how much he relies on the goodwill of the people.”

Despite everything, she laughed. “That’s a good one.”

“I figured the mood could use a little lightening. Careful about staring into that abyss too long. Sometimes it stares back.”

“At least that means someone is.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”

“If you say so.”

“Me, I like sitting out here at night, under the stars. It’s enough to keep me content.” She leaned in closer. “What about you? What’s drawn you out here tonight?”

Rosa didn’t answer, still staring into the water. The woman did not press her any further, and they sat there together in silence.

* * *

When Rosa emerged from the portal, she found herself in a large courtyard, her eyes falling mainly upon the high walls surrounding her. Glancing about, she saw figures, mostly female, wearing robes and milling about, tending to various herb gardens that populated the space. Rosa watched them as the world turned sideways, lying on her back against the stiff board that held her in place while she was teleported.

She felt strong hands lift her up, and then she was being carried along a stone path. Beside her, an older woman came into view, her head partly concealed under a hood, who walked alongside the procession. Looking to each side, Rosa found that it was two women, not men, similarly hooded to the woman walking beside them, who carried her aloft.

“Greetings and well met, Rosa var Attre,” the woman said. “My name is Nenneke. I understand you’ve had quite the ordeal.”

She didn’t reply.

“I thought you might feel that way,” she continued, unfazed. “We’ll be taking you to your quarters now, and your father and sister will be joining you shortly. In the meantime, I’ll tell you a little more about this place. You’ll be here quite a while, you know.”

“We’re in Ellander, right?”

The older woman nodded. “Indeed. Folk come here from all over the continent, be they from the north or south. Some even venture in from the east. And we heal them all.”

They passed out of the main courtyard, towards a densely packed cluster of buildings. “These are the student quarters, where the novices stay. You’re a patient, so there’s no need to keep you somewhere so cramped. But you’ll be getting to know the people who live in them well enough.” They moved on, and Nenneke gestured to the left. “The main garden is through there. We grow all manner of herbs and medicinal plants, which won’t cure your condition, but should make it easier to bear.”

Rosa squinted at the archway, watching various young women pass through it in both directions. She said nothing.

“And here we are,” she finished. “The girls will take you inside and bathe you, then set you up in bed. After that your father and sister will pay you a visit.” She smiled. “I know it seems hopeless, but we’re here to help. You’re in good hands.”

She nodded to indicate that she understood, but didn’t speak. Words had once issued forth from her tongue like a waterfall, but now they had all dried up. There was no telling if or when that spring would ever be renewed.

* * *

After being bathed and changed into a set of robes, Rosa was laid on a bed in a large, mostly private room. A tall set of candles burned in the corner, next to a door that connected this room to the rest of the complex. She found it odd that these northerners would go out of their way to accommodate her, but had her suspicions as to why.

The door opened, and her father entered, followed shortly by Edna. She regarded them with a vacant stare, and they moved closer to the foot of the bed. Her father was the first to speak.

“So, Rosa? How are you finding it here?”

“I’ve not been here an hour,” she answered. “It seems nice enough. Why couldn’t I have stayed at the other hospital in Toussaint?”

“That facility is not designed for long term care,” he replied. “And this place is closer to Novigrad. Once you’ve recovered more, we’ll be able to bring you back home. But for now, you must heal.”

“Will you visit often?”

“There is not a force in the world that could keep me from seeing my daughter,” he said. “I still have many duties to attend, but when time permits, I will make the journey here as much as I can. So will your sister.”

“You mean she’s leaving too?”

Edna sent a sad glance her way. “I wanted to stay, but it’s impossible for me to do so and still seek retribution on the one who landed you in this position. Surely you want revenge.”

‘ _Do I?_ ’ She stared blankly forward, absorbing her sister’s words. “Revenge on who? Falka of Ebbing? I want her to burn as much as you do, but you heard Her Grace the Duchess. The duel marks the end of the conflict.”

“Really? She toyed with you, humiliated you, and lamed you. No edict from a Duchess would stop me from seeing the heavens rain down upon her.”

“Rosa has more sense than you realize,” said Henry var Attre. “The laws of Toussaint may come from an older time, but they are enforced by the Empire. Any attempt to seek retribution against the victor of a duel would be considered a criminal offense, punishable by imprisonment.”

“Well, it’s all the same. Falka was merely an alias, and she’s disappeared from Toussaint completely. I’m going after Philippa Eilhart. Were it not for her you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“You’re going after Philippa? How?”

“Do you remember the Baroness La Valette? She had the house right next to ours in Gildorf. She overheard something that could land Philippa Eilhart in a world of trouble were the Emperor to find out. And Papa here is able to get that information into the right hands easily.”

Rosa raise an eyebrow. “Then let him handle it. Why can’t you stay here with me?”

Her sister shook her head sadly. “I asked, Rosa. I begged. But the priestesses say you must have time alone to heal. It wouldn’t do to have me hovering over you day and night. I wish it were otherwise. But I’ll visit you as often as I can.”

Chuckling darkly, she turned her face away. “You both make lovely excuses. But I know what you’re really saying. I make you uncomfortable. You’d rather go back to your life, where you don’t have to think about what happened to me, while I’m stuck here dealing with it.”

Her father’s hand began stroking her shoulder. “Rosa. My darling daughter. There is nothing that could ever make me not wish to look upon you, to be in your presence. I dearly wish that I could stay. But the priestesses won’t allow it.”

“Then let me heal somewhere else.”

Henry var Attre shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Rosa. We’ll stay with you for the next two days, while you settle in. But then we must be going. As much as I desire it to be otherwise, the world does not stop spinning on account of my daughter.”

“Whatever,” she spat, not looking his way. “Just go.”

After a few seconds, the hand was removed, and they both quietly left the room.

* * *

“It’s funny, you know,” said Magdalene. “Despite their utter necessity, people dislike places of healing, even if they don’t say so out loud. They serve as reminders of how fragile the human form is; how an entire system can fall apart because one small piece of it fails to function. It’s why, unless they’re being healed themselves, most people don’t stick around.”

“But why? Am I so terrible to look at? Everything is still in its proper place, it just doesn’t… work anymore.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she said. “But then I’ve never been much concerned with mortality. Those who study at the temple are the same way. Where most people experience a profound sense of discomfort in such a place, they feel a sense of belonging. Like it’s where they were meant to be all along.”

“I don’t know how I feel.” Rosa took her hand out of the water, shifting around with some effort. “It’s not so terrible, but I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life in this place.”

“Understandable. So where do you imagine spending the rest of your life?”

“If I said the bottom of that lake would you tell me I’m mad?”

Magdalene chuckled. “Not at all. You think you’re the first person here to consider that? I will tell you that it’s a horrible way to go. Even if your mind’s made up, your body will still fight for every breath it can get, and your lungs will feel like they’re burning all the while. Not how I’d recommend doing it.”

“Is that meant to discourage me?”

“Of course it is. See, most people think that if someone wants to end it all, they’ll find a way no matter what. But suicide is usually an impulse decision, made on the spur of the moment. Once interrupted, most people don’t try it again.”

The corners of her mouth tugged up into a dark smile. “And what if they’re persistent?”

“Then it’s still worth saying something. I could tell you that you still have plenty to live for, or that those you’d be leaving behind would be distraught, but you’ve considered that already. All I really need to do is make it inconvenient for you.”

Rosa laughed. “Fine. It was just a thought. I doubt I’d have the courage to actually go through with it.”

“Courage has nothing to do with it. As I said, it’s a decision based on impulse, like taking one more drink before heading home from the tavern. To an outside observer, there’s often no rhyme or reason. All anyone has to say afterwards is how they can’t understand why it happened.”

“Why do you care so much anyway? You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t see how that precludes me from caring what happens to you. Would you enjoy watching someone drown themselves?”

She shook her head.

“I serve life, not death,” she continued. “There’s been enough death in the world of late.”

Rosa’s eyes returned to the water. “You can say that again.”

* * *

Nenneke sat beside her bed in a small chair, arms folded over her lap, looking patiently at Rosa, whose face hadn’t changed in the entire five minutes they’d been staring at each other. Finally Nenneke broke the silence.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said. “While you’ll probably live a long and otherwise healthy life, it’s unlikely you’ll ever walk again. I know you’ve been told that already, but it helps to be reminded of reality as often as possible. Your recovery will be hard, and things won’t ever return to the way they were. But I know you’re strong enough to get through it.”

She said nothing in reply, turning her gaze away from the older woman.

“You don’t have to say anything right now if you don’t want to. But talking about it will help. I used to have Iola for this sort of thing, but I suppose I’ll just have to make do.” She smiled. “Your father insisted on you getting the best treatment.”

“Then why didn’t you let him stay? Or my sister?”

“Because life doesn’t end when you get injured,” said Nenneke. “Family can prove an excellent source of support after trauma, but come to rely on them too much and you’ll cripple yourself emotionally as well. I’m not here to make you feel better by telling you what you want to hear. I’m here to help you learn to move on.”

“And what if I don’t want to? I just want my life back.”

“Nobody can give that to you,” the older woman said. “You have to take it for yourself. We can start by talking about you. Your life. Who you were before.”

Rosa chuckled bitterly. “What’s there to tell? I’m the daughter of a Nilfgaardian ambassador who brought me to a land where everybody hates us, and all I did every day was fight off boredom. I didn’t even like my old life all that much. But at least I could walk.”

“Indeed.” She nodded sagely. “I hear you also like to fence.”

“I did. I burned through instructor after instructor, reducing so-called swordmasters to sniveling amateurs. The only one I couldn’t beat was a witcher named Geralt. We had a duel on a bridge, and I ran off to explore more of the savage north that my father insisted on protecting me from. I got maybe a few hundred feet before running into a pair of thugs. He saved me from them, then told me the lesson was over.”

Nenneke leaned back, surprised. “Geralt of Rivia?”

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to patch him up. You remind me of him, you know. Thinking you’re better off keeping it all inside you. There’s nothing wrong with feeling angry, or sad, or broken. It’s how you know you’re still alive.”

Rosa was quiet for a few moments. “I don’t feel any of that.”

“Then what _do_ you feel?”

“I don’t know. Empty, I guess. Like my life doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

The older woman pursed her lips, regarding her with an analytical gaze. Finally, she replied. “What would you like your life to mean?”

“More than this. I don’t want to be a cripple forever.”

“Then let me help you. I can’t give you your legs back, but I can help you find a new purpose in life. A reason to keep going.”

Rosa frowned, still not looking at her. “If you say so.”

* * *

“Rise and shine, Rosa var Attre,” Nenneke told her a day or so later. It was hard to tell how much time had passed when every moment felt the same. “Today we’re giving you some fresh air.”

Grumbling, she turned slowly to face the older woman, who was flanked by two other priestesses. A strange contraption rested before them, looking like a cross between a chair and a cart. She wrinkled her face in confusion, craning her head back as she stared, puzzled.

“What in the name of the Great Sun is that?”

Nenneke smirked. “Something to help you get around. A student from Oxenfurt Academy invented it, then donated a few to the temple. It’s a good thing you’ve already developed your upper body strength; that’ll make it an easier transition.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“In any case, Katye and Myrrha here will help you out of bed, and then we’ll visit the garden. It’ll do you good to get outside of this room once in a while.”

Rosa said nothing more, submitting to the two young priestesses as they hefted her out of bed, then lowered her onto the small chair. Her feet were placed on small stirrups to keep them from dangling, and her hands fit comfortably around the edge of the rounded wooden wheels. Crossing her arms, Nenneke nodded in approval, and the two priestesses stepped back.

“Now, Rosa, you have a choice. Would you like one of these girls to push you to your destination, or can you get there on your own?”

She gave a brief huff and twisted her face into a sneer, then began pushing on the wheels towards the open door. They had been crafted well; she encountered practically no resistance from the wheels, and they absorbed the shock of the uneven stone with ease. Before long they were out of the small building, travelling in the open air. Katye and Myrrha went off in the other direction, leaving Nenneke as her only companion.

It took a few turns for her to get the hang of how the chair worked, but before long they were in the garden, surrounded by the high walls of the complex. Various students and priestesses milled about, along with other patients that she could see from here. One of them was conversing with a tall man in a brown leather coat, who had his hair drawn back in a ponytail with a sword at his waist. The woman in question was sitting on the ground, knees curled in close to her chest.

Her right arm was missing.

Rosa squinted with one eye, tilting her head to the side. “What’s a witch hunter doing here?”

“Two witch hunters, actually,” said Nenneke. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

She gave a shrug, but nodded all the same, following the old priestess over to the pair.

“I still don’t understand why I’m here,” the young woman, who looked no older than nineteen, was saying to the witch hunter, who stood over her with his arms crossed, fixing her with a stern expression. “These people don’t believe in the Eternal Fire. Why should I be healed by a bunch of idolaters who worship a fertility goddess?”

“And lo I say unto you, the Eternal Fire cares not what hand attends to it, so long as said hand is gentle and good,” the man replied, quoting some sort of scripture. “The priestesses of Melitele are not the same as peasants dabbling in black magic. This temple is the best place of healing around. Were it not for them you’d have lost more than just your arm.”

The woman scoffed, turning her head away. “Every day I’m subjected to these herbs is a day I could be spreading the light of the Eternal Fire. Why will you not deliver me from this place?”

“You’ve healing left to do,” said the witch hunter. “Naught but a week has passed since you were brought here.”

“That’s still way longer than I have the stomach for. If I have my bandages changed by one more trembling novice who can’t stop talking about the wonders of Melitele, I may introduce this place to a different kind of fire.”

“Do let me know in advance if you do that,” said Nenneke as they approached. “I’d at least like to be awake to see you try.”

“Ah, Mother Nenneke,” the witch hunter greeted. “It’s good to see you. Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.”

“How many times must I tell you? Just Nenneke will do fine.” She gestured to Rosa. “Graden, Tamara, meet Rosa var Attre. Rosa, this is Graden, a witch hunter, and Tamara Strenger.”

Tamara sent a scowl her way, and Rosa returned her gaze. “Var Attre, eh? You’re a long way from home.”

“You’re a long way from Redania. And here I thought the witch hunters were disbanded.”

“His Majesty King Radovid is dead, true, but the witch hunters’ work carries on,” said Graden. “The war brought evil to many lands, and only the Eternal Fire can cleanse them. This service was once performed by the knights of the Order of the Flaming Rose, but alas they have fallen into disgrace and banditry, carving out a piece of the fisstech trade.”

“A fancy way of saying Nilfgaard allowed us to continue operating so long as we swore fealty to the Emperor,” added Tamara. “Wasn’t a hard decision to make. We’re in Temeria, where I’m from, and this whole country did the same thing. There were some holdouts, of course, but they just retired.”

“So how’d you end up here?”

Tamara glanced at her arm. “Oh, this? I grew tired of having two arms, so one night I decided to lop it off. “

“This work exposes one to many dangers,” said Graden. “Tamara jests, but the attack she survived could have taken a far worse toll.”

“They were common bandits,” the young woman insisted. “One of them got lucky, cut right into my artery. I nearly bled out. All things considered it’s a wonder I only lost the arm.”

“It happened not two miles from here,” he explained. “If we’d had to carry her further she’d likely have died.”

“What about you? Why are you here?”

Rosa  smirked. “Got tired of having legs.”

“Nenneke,” said Graden. “There’s something I must discuss with you. Perhaps we should let these two get to know one another.”

“Yes,” said Nenneke, in a way that told Rosa she’d been planning this from the start. “I think that’s a fabulous idea.”

* * *

“Have you ever met someone who’s had it so much worse than you in every conceivable way that you feel guilty for ever feeling sorry for yourself?” Rosa asked as she stared out over the darkened horizon, her vision terminating halfway over the lake. “I had a boring childhood, but at least I had a father who cared for me. Tamara’s father beat her mother for nineteen years, then after they left him, her mother was kidnapped by monsters and forced into their service, which drove her mad. Then her parents disappeared into the Blue Mountains, and she had to carry on serving the witch hunters.”

Her eyes narrowed, squinting at the moon’s reflection. “I suppose after enduring that, losing an arm isn’t so bad.”

“Your problems are your problems,” said Magdalene. “Drowning in seven feet of water feels exactly the same as drowning in fifty. It’s not worth comparing your suffering to that of others.”

“I know that,” she replied. “The one thing we had in common was that neither of us expected to end up here.”

“It sounds like you made fast friends with this girl.”

Rosa laughed. “As if. For the first day or so we hardly talked. Both of us sensed that Nenneke wanted us to bond, so we each resisted as hard as we could. It wasn’t difficult. It’s not like the last couple of patriots I ran into treated me with any sort of respect. By all rights we should have hated each other.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Regardless of where we started in life, we both ended up in the same place. We soon realized that we could either be at each other’s throats the whole time, or we could accept that if we were stuck here anyway, we might as well find a way to make things more tolerable.” She smiled. “So we became friends.”

“A Temerian and a Nilfgaardian. Quite the odd partnership. But I’ve seen pairings more unusual.”

“Right? Our life experiences couldn’t have been more different, and the rivalry between north and south means we should have clawed each other’s eyes out on sight. But everybody’s heard that story. Besides, I hold no special hatred for the people of the north, and Tamara’s father became a vassal of Nilfgaard even before Temeria did the same. There was no reason to divide ourselves over politics.”

“That implies there were other reasons.”

“We’ve different personalities as well. Tamara was righteous; believed in advancing the greater good by spreading religion to the masses. All I ever did with my life was practice swordplay because I was bored. But despite everything, there was something that drew us together. I’m not sure I have a name for it. Maybe we were united in feeling no one could really understand what we were going through.”

“Nobody save for each other?”

Rosa only smirked.

* * *

 “You know, it’s funny,” said Tamara, seated in a small chair next to Rosa’s bed, keeping her company late into the night. “Sometimes when I lie awake, it feels like my arm is still there. Like my body hasn’t realized it’s missing. Isn’t that strange?”

“The same thing happens to me,” she replied. “But it’s not the body that forgets. It’s the mind.”

“Well whatever it is, it’s taken some getting used to. Every time I wake, for a few moments, I forget it’s gone. Is it the same for you?”

Rosa nodded. “Do you know how long I had to practice my footwork before I could wield my sword as well as I did? All that time, wasted now. All that effort rendered moot.”

“I was never any good at fighting with my left arm. Though I suppose I’ll get a chance to practice once I’m out of this place. Have you thought of what you’ll do? Once you’re gone from here?”

“My tutors did always wish I would sit still long enough to study,” she said. “I guess now that’s come true.”

“Well they’ve books aplenty here. I’ll not read them, though. I shouldn’t poison my mind with words not of the Eternal Fire.”

“I’m not that interested either.” She frowned. “What were the lot of you doing in Ellander anyway?”

“Well, like Graden mentioned, the Order of the Flaming Rose turned to banditry after being disbanded by King Radovid. They’re fisstech dealers now, and a group of them set up shop across the Pontar after being driven out of Redania. A great number of witch hunters used to belong to the order, actually. We were dispatched to root out and destroy them.”

“But that didn’t go according to plan?”

“Depends what you mean. I definitely didn’t plan to lose my arm. The man who chopped it off tasted steel not long after, and they were forced to leave their laboratory behind when they fled. The rest of my unit is still out there, hunting them down. I should be with them.”

“And here I thought the witch hunters only went after peasants and sorceresses.”

Tamara shrugged with her one remaining shoulder. “We still do. But all the mages left Novigrad and went to Kovir, then Nilfgaard put new laws in place that made it so we can’t just march into a village and hang someone for being a witch. Didn’t make much difference to me, that’s not what I signed up for, but some of the men were right agitated when the new code was laid down.”

“The Empire prides itself on having a code of justice,” she replied. “But what difference does that make to me? I’m here because I tried going after a sorceress, with no idea what I was getting myself into.”

“Which sorceress?”

“Philippa Eilhart. Though blind, she was able to see ten steps ahead of me and my sister—even threatened to have us assassinated. We were advised by another guest at the ball that we could get to her by going after someone she wanted for her own schemes, an ashen-haired noble girl who went by Falka of Ebbing. So Edna and I provoked this Falka to the point where she challenged me to a duel.”

Her eyes fell to the foot of the bed. “And I lost.”

“That’s what happened to your legs?”

Rosa nodded.

“I’ve heard of Philippa Eilhart. She was Redanian herself, and Radovid formed the witch hunters in response to her schemes involving the Lodge of Sorceresses. The pogrom of mages in the north all stemmed from his desire to take revenge on her. In the end she stabbed him right in the back.”

“If only I merited such attention,” she said. “I doubt she even spared a second thought for me after the duel. I doubt anybody did.”

“And what of the other girl? Falka?”

“Disappeared. According to my sister no one’s seen nor heard from her since that night.”

“When my father would beat my mother, I longed to pay him back in kind for every blow,” said Tamara. “I prayed that the Eternal Fire would strike him down, send him to a place where he’d burn forever. But in the end all I could do was take my mother away from him and start a new life. It’s not worth it to seek retribution. The Eternal Fire is meant for cleansing and redemption, not revenge. When you try and set your enemies ablaze, you burn along with them.”

“You learn that in your holy book?”

“No.” Tamara shook her head. “Just life.”

“I don’t even care enough to get revenge,” she revealed. “I just want to go back to how things were before.”

“That’s where we differ. I like my life far better now. Even a lost arm is nothing compared to the hell my father put me through.”

“Do you think you’ll ever see them again? Your parents?”

“My father said he’d find me once my mother was herself again. But I’ve no idea how long that will take. I’d like it to be true. But I’ll await only her. Not him.”

Rosa nodded, and the two of them sat quietly until sleep claimed them both.

* * *

“Something I keep coming back to,” said Rosa the next day, still in her room. “The way I acted during the ball. I didn’t feel like myself. I was drunk, sure, but I’d never felt so… mean. I didn’t notice it at the time, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Tamara was leaning back in her chair, her arm tucked behind her head. “My father also claimed that alcohol brought out the beast in him. But he could summon it sober as well. All it really does is amplify what’s already there.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I was raised to observe proper etiquette, which is one of the reasons I detest banquets. But my sister and I have always managed to behave ourselves, even with a few drinks in us. I honestly have no idea what came over me.”

“I’ve heard it all before. The Eternal Fire will expose the truth, if you let it burn back the lies.”

“Forget it. I’m clearly telling this to the wrong person.”

“Hey, I’m not comparing you to my father, alright? One drunken slip-up doesn’t hold a candle to years of calculated abuse. I’m just saying, you’re looking to blame some outside force for a problem that originates with you.”

“I suppose I did mean every word I said,” she admitted. “But I don’t believe in them anymore. The person who said those things… I don’t know who she is.”

“And who are you now?”

“Someone who wants to do better.”

“Then let the Fire into your heart. It can show you the way in even the darkest night.”

Rosa chuckled. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

“What’s it like?” Tamara asked her as they sat in the garden. “Nilfgaard, I mean. I’ve only heard stories; never been outside the north. My father would import things from other parts of the Empire, but I always longed to see the golden towers.”

“I’d like to see them too,” said Rosa. “But as you probably deduced from the name, I was born in Attre, a vassal to the kingdom of Cintra. It remained so even after Cintra was conquered by Nilfgaard. It’s got a dry climate, not like the swamps up here. My sister and I were actually touring Nilfgaard’s provinces, which was supposed to conclude with a visit to the city of golden towers. But we only got as far as Toussaint.”

“That still sounds far more exciting than my upbringing,” she said. “Temeria gets old after a while, though careful telling that to the people who still choose to live here. I thought Novigrad would provide more of a thrill, but it smells, the people are disgusting and dirty as ever, and now the Church of the Eternal Fire’s lost its power.”

“Heh. I’ve lived in Novigrad for years, ever since Papa was stationed there as ambassador. Edna and I travelled back and forth of course, but I always had to see the world while accompanied by armed guards. I never understood how people could hate me so much even though I’d never done anything to them.”

“With most peasants, it’s because your horses eat better than their children. And because your soldiers killed their loved ones, raped their women, and sold their children into slavery. Nilfgaard still practices slavery, can you believe it?”

Rosa shrugged. “And what part of that is my fault?”

“It’s not about fault. It’s about putting a face to one’s enemy. Once they’ve decided that you represent all their woes, even if you’ve personally done them no wrong, they’ll hate you forever.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“It’s not. But it’s not just people from the north that do it. You must have all sorts of preconceived notions about us.”

Rosa shook her head. “All I’ve ever wanted was to get to know the lot of you better. I’ve no friends up here, hence why I spent all day practicing with a sword. Until I met you the longest conversation I had with a Nordling was Geralt of Rivia.”

“You know Geralt?”

“Of course. I talked him into giving me a couple of fencing lessons while he was looking for that bard friend of his, Master Dandelion. Papa had hired Dandelion as a rhetoric tutor for Edna and I, but Edna decided to play a little prank by writing him a love letter and signing my name. Geralt agreed to the lessons, but in the end I got a firsthand taste of how the north feels about me.”

“I met the witcher because my father hired him to track me and my mother down after we fled. He later helped to free my mother from the Crones, but…”

“He couldn’t restore her mind.”

“Precisely.”

“Geralt was at the ball,” said Rosa. “He was standing next to Philippa Eilhart as my sister and I made drunken fools of ourselves. The girl Falka, the one I lost the duel to… he had some sort of connection with her. Something unspoken, but I sensed it even while blinded by rage.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I’m not sure. But thanks to Master Dandelion’s ballads I’m not sure there’s anybody on the continent who hasn’t at least heard of him. He could have met her anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” said Tamara, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “When we get out of here, would you take me to see the towers of Nilfgaard? I’d enjoy it far more with someone by my side.”

Rosa smiled. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

* * *

“And so we got to know each other better over the next few days,” said Rosa. “Whenever I was around her I’d forget about my injuries entirely. There was something about her that just made me want to open up. I’ve no idea what it was.”

“You talk about her in the past tense. I assume Tamara is no longer a patient at the Temple?”

“She lost an arm, but she could still move about and even swing a sword with her other hand. Hardly in fighting shape, but she recovered faster than me. She left several days ago.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Rosa didn’t say anything for a while. “Alone,” she finally answered. “But not abandoned. It couldn’t be helped. I had to stay. She had to go. It’s just how things turned out.”

“It sounds like you enjoyed your time together, at least.”

“I did.” She frowned. “Not all of it was perfect, though. Some of it got downright strange.”

* * *

“Melitele is typically represented in three aspects,” said Graden, standing in front of them as the two of them sat in an open section of the garden. Students and priestesses went about their business around them, while Rosa and Tamara sat there looking utterly confused. “The Virgin, the Mother, and the Crone. In her second aspect she is the patron goddess of women who are pregnant or in childbirth, regardless of age or social standing.”

“Quick question,” said Tamara, raising her hand. “Why are you teaching us this? The Eternal Fire is the only religion I need.”

“It will do you good to understand local customs and beliefs, to better serve you in spreading the light of the Eternal Fire. Most religions have certain commonalities that link them. For example, many aspects involved in the worship of Melitele also describe the Great Mother Freya, worshipped in the Skellige Isles. She is also depicted in the same three forms representing various stages of motherhood.”

“Another question,” said Rosa. “Why am I here?”

“Nenneke recommended it. She didn’t give an exact reason, though I suspect it’s to keep you from becoming bored out of your skull.”

“This really isn’t the cure for that.”

“Why are _you_ here?” Tamara asked. “Shouldn’t you be out chasing down the renegade knights of the Order of the Flaming Rose?”

“Enough questions!” he declared. “This is important for you to learn, and you shall soon see why.”

They quieted, leaning back as he continued.

“Now, some followers of these religions claim these goddesses can take physical form. Freya, for example, supposedly takes the form of a cat and wanders among the island folk. The last claimed incarnation of Melitele was Adela, daughter of Riannon, a Child of the Elder Blood. Or so it was reported by the mages of the conclave, hundreds of years ago.”

He paused, pacing back and forth before returning to his lecture. “There is some controversy over this next bit. According to the mages, Adela was really the daughter of the rebel Falka, who claimed that an avenger would be born of her tainted blood. But according to information discovered later on by two lawyers, Codringher and Fenn, it was Fiona who sprung from Bloody Falka’s womb.”

“How is this relevant?” asked Tamara.

Rosa put a hand to her chin. “The girl I lost the duel to… she went by the name of Falka.”

“A fact which is surely no coincidence,” said Graden. “You also claim that she had ashen hair, green eyes, and a scar on her left cheek.”

She nodded.

“That means it was no minor noble to whom you lost the duel, but the daughter of the Emperor himself. Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.”

All the pieces connected, and Rosa’s heart plummeted into her stomach. It all made sense now. It was like a fairy tale, complete with a princess attending a ball in disguise. There was usually a villain in stories like that, one who got their comeuppance at the end. It was only now that Rosa realized that role had been assigned to her.

“Cirilla studied here, in fact, a secret which was closely guarded during the Second Northern War. Back when every king wanted to get their hands on her. You’ve become even more important than you realize, Rosa var Attre.”

“Important? How? Even if we do know her true identity, how does that change anything? She’s long gone by now, and I don’t see how any of this ties into you teaching us about Melitele.”

“Adela was considered an incarnation of Melitele because of the powers inherent in the Elder Blood,” said Nenneke, just now joining them. “I don’t pretend to understand it all myself, but I saw what young Ciri was capable of when she trained here. I suppose there isn’t really a point to revealing all this, save to discourage you from seeking revenge on her. Or allowing your sister to do so.”

“I already told you I don’t care about revenge, and my sister isn’t coming back! I don’t give a damn about religions or conspiracies or ploughing Elder Blood! I just want to be left in peace!”

Nenneke nodded sagely. “That’s understandable. You’re wrong about one thing, though. Your sister is coming back. She’s already here, in fact.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Indeed. And you must stop her from pursuing her current path. It will only lead to ruin.”

Rosa shook her head. “I said I don’t give a damn. Take me to her. Now.”

“As you wish.”

* * *

“Rosa! How I’ve missed you!” Abandoning decorum, Edna rushed towards her, leaning down and wrapping her arms tightly around her. “How are things? Are they treating you well?”

They had gone to Rosa’s room, affording them a small amount of privacy, so no one saw Edna’s deeply personal display. Not that anyone here would care.

Rosa shrugged. “I’m fed three times a day, they make sure I’m clean and rested, and the medicines do wonders. All in all, not the worst place to recuperate.”

“Papa sends his regrets. He wanted to visit, but has been called away on important business. He’ll be by in about a week.”

She couldn’t even muster the energy to be upset. “I understand. It’s good you’re here at least.”

“With news, no less. Papa has successfully messaged the Emperor regarding Philippa’s scheme. That conniving sorceress will soon be undone. Then we can hunt down that bitch who took away your legs.”

Rosa frowned. “No, Edna. I don’t care about getting revenge, on either of them. I just want to move on with my life.”

“Well, _I_ want to avenge you. Let me, please.”

“Let you? As if I could stop you from here?” She shook her head. “Listen, going after this Falka is even more of a foolish endeavor than we first thought. I’ve learned her true name.”

“Really? Tell me!”

“Her name is Cirilla. She’s the Emperor’s daughter.”

Edna processed that. “Meaning if we were to raise so much as a pinky finger against her…”

“Our heads would be forfeit. It’s hopeless, Edna. Let it go.”

“Not so fast, sister.” She smiled devilishly. “For this works in our favor. We don’t have to hunt after her ourselves at all. Think about it. If some minor noble wins a duel and maims her opponent, it causes some small gossip, and is quickly forgotten. But if the Emperor’s daughter does it… well, then we have a true scandal on our hands, don’t we?”

“What are you implying?”

“Only that no one shall forget her crime once word has spread. She’ll never live such a thing down; never be invited back into polite society.”

Rosa stared at her incredulously. “What makes you think that? Her father is the _bloede_ Emperor. He can make anything—and anyone associated with it—disappear. Besides, something tells me she doesn’t much care for polite society, what with the way she’s already dropped off the face of the planet.”

“She’ll surface again. And when she does, she’ll have to answer for what she’s done.”

“I disagree, sister. Please, don’t pursue this any further, I beg of you.”

“I can’t understand why you’re being so hesitant, Rosa. I figured you of all people would see what I’m trying to do here.”

“Just because we’re twins doesn’t mean we always think alike.”

“Well I’m going after her anyway, Emperor’s daughter or not. So you can just—”

The door slammed open. Graden marched inside, flanked by two other witch hunters. Strangely, Tamara was not with them.

“Edna var Attre,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You are under arrest for possessing implements of black magic, as well as bringing said implements onto hallowed ground.”

Edna stared blankly at him. “What?”

“A book was found among your belongings that details the summoning of demons,” he elaborated, gesturing to one of the other witch hunters, who held up the book. “A deeply evil artifact indeed. Care to explain how it came into your possession?”

“Explain to me first what right you had to go through my things,” retorted Edna, placing her hands on her hips. “My guards should have kept you away.”

“Your guards did not dispute the fact that all who pass through the gates of the temple are subject to search. One can never be too careful.”

“I don’t even want that thing,” she said. “You can keep it. And you can’t arrest me. I’m the ambassador’s daughter. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“The ambassador ain’t around,” said one of the other witch hunters. “You’ll smell real nice when we burn you.”

“Quiet, Simeon. Now, Miss var Attre, you can still serve the Church of the Eternal Fire, if you identify who gave you this wretched text.”

“Readily. His name is Gaunter O’Dimm. He tricked Rosa and I into the series of events that led to her being in that chair. He said he had the power to heal her with a wish, and gave me that as a means of contacting him.”

Graden stared long and hard at her. “What sort of foul being is this Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“I don’t know,” said Rosa. “But it’s not the only name he goes by. He’s also called the Man of Glass. He wants something with the Elder Blood, but no one’s sure what. All I know is he manipulated me and my sister into things going the way they did.”

“And how do you know these things?”

“It doesn’t matter. My sister is no witch. You’ve no need to arrest her.”

“Perhaps not. But she has admitted to conspiring against the crown. Not even diplomatic immunity can protect her from that.”

“Conspiring?” Edna laughed. “All I wish to do is make public the fact that the Emperor’s daughter crippled my sister. There’s nothing treasonous about that. Like I said, you can keep the book. Burn it, if you must. It’s of no use to me.”

His hard, penetrating gaze relented after a few moments. “Very well. You shall help us to do so. You may be too important to hang, but don’t consider yourself off the hook yet. Men! Escort them to the courtyard!”

* * *

“It all felt like a bad dream,” said Rosa. “In the end they let Edna go, but if she hadn’t been who she is they’d have burned her along with that book. It made things more difficult with Tamara. These were the people she called comrades? The witch hunters claim to free people from superstition, but they’re the most paranoid lot I’ve ever met.”

“Fanatics don’t recognize the concept of irony,” said Magdalene. “But it sounds like this Graden was more reasonable than most.”

She nodded. “He was a lone bastion of sanity in a sea of madmen. I think that’s why Tamara trusted him.”

“I’m interested to hear about this Gaunter O’Dimm,” she continued. “Did he really offer your sister a wish?”

“Yes, but Edna told me only a fool would take that bargain. Everything he’d advised us to do resulted in tragedy. The price he asked was too high. Nothing is worth that.”

“It’s fitting that you received a lesson on the gods,” she said. “By all accounts, Gaunter O’Dimm isn’t just _a_ devil, but rather _the_ Devil. Your sister is correct; nothing good would have come of that arrangement.”

“And how do you know so much about him?”

Magdalene shrugged. “I’ve been around a long time. Picked up a few things here and there.”

“I don’t know what I did to warrant his attention. Someone else visited me in a dream, claiming she was drawn to me by what happened, but I’ve no idea why she cared either. What’s so important about me?”

“Everyone’s important in their own way. No prayer to the goddess goes unheard. It’s just not often that you get a reply.”

“Well, needless to say, I wasn’t pleased after that. My sister left shortly after, and before I knew it Tamara had healed in full.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the lake. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? How you never appreciate a person more than right when they’re about to leave.”

* * *

“So you’re going then.”

Tamara nodded. “Our work’s done here. We’re to head back to Novigrad.”

“When my father learns of what your commander tried to do to my sister…”

“For what it’s worth, I spoke out against it. It makes no sense for two ambassador’s daughters to be involved in that level of witchcraft. It’s because of Graden that they didn’t just burn her on the spot. He’s a good man.”

“Is that why you’re going with him?”

“Of course. And you live in Novigrad, right? Once you’re released from this place we stand to see each other often.”

“Oh please, Tamara. Look at me. I’m never getting out of here.”

Smiling she kneeled down and cupped Rosa’s face with her hand. “You will. You’ve grown stronger every day since I first met you.”

“Only because of you.”

“No. The Eternal Fire burns within you, Rosa. It makes you strong. That’s how I know we’ll see each other again.”

“Promise?”

She smiled. “Promise.”

* * *

“But she failed to keep that promise,” said Rosa. “Not two days after they left, we got word that bandits ambushed them in the woods. Slaughtered them all. What’s the point of life, when something like that can happen with no rhyme or reason?”

“If I knew the answer to that, would I be out here staring at the water with you?”

“It’s all for naught. There is no higher plan. In the end it doesn’t make a difference if you look upon the stars or stare at their reflection. They’ve all been dead for millions of years.”

“Chaos plays a larger role in your life than you’ve even begun to realize,” said Magdalene. “At times it can all seem like a whirling vortex that devours the hopes and dreams of anybody foolish enough to believe it all means something. But it only appears that way because humans are incapable of looking at it on a grander scale.”

Rosa couldn’t help but notice how she excluded herself from that sentiment.

“Let me put it this way: the view from the valley is different than the view from the mountaintop. Most stars are dead, it’s true, but they’re proof that our actions stretch far out into the future, and that nothing is ever truly forgotten. When most people see chance and randomness, what they fail to notice are the larger workings of a system that’s been in place for longer than the universe has existed.”

“You’ve lost me completely.”

“Then I’ll describe it in terms you find more familiar. When you train your body to swordfight, the goal is to make it so that your responses are automatic and ingrained. If you have to think too carefully about where your sword is going, you’ll always be a half second behind where you need to be. Similarly, if you try and look for the deeper meaning of individual events, you lose sight of the bigger picture.”

“You won’t win by flailing mindlessly either,” countered Rosa. “Trust me.”

“Not the point. Swordfighting is a form of controlled chaos. When you think about it too hard, it doesn’t flow as well.”

“So, what then? Tamara died for a reason? I lost my legs in a stupid, pointless duel for a reason? What reason is that? What destiny am I supposed to fulfill that requires me to suffer like this?”

“As you were told, this wasn’t supposed to be your destiny,” said Magdalene. “Nothing in life means anything, not inherently. But you can _make_ it mean something. You can make your own light shine in the darkness.”

“Who are you?” she asked, craning her neck back. “Really?”

The veiled woman turned towards her, and Rosa could hear her smiling. “Life _is_ chaos, Rosa var Attre. But it’s possible to carve some meaning out of it all. Even if you don’t grasp it at first. Remember that.”

“You haven’t answered my—”

“Rosa?”

She heard a voice in the dark, but refused to believe it was real. Next to her, Magdalene was gone. She continued staring out towards the water, wondering if she’d finally begun to go mad.

“Hey! Rosa!”

A hand tapped her shoulder, and Rosa shifted, looking up at the person behind her. She saw Tamara’s face, framed by the moon and the stars.

“Tamara! What are you doing here?”

“Me? What are _you_ doing out here? I’ve been looking for you for an hour!”

“But I thought you were… how are you here?”

“Something attacked us two days out from here,” Tamara admitted. “This time I was the one who dragged Graden to safety. Cheeky bastard only lost an eye. He’ll be fine in a day or two.” She smiled, taking a seat next to Rosa. “But I shan’t be going back with him.”

“Why not?”

“Are you serious? The Eternal Fire was sending me a very clear message. I’m not meant to leave here. Not yet. And not without you.”

“That’s… I…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said, leaning against her. “It’s peaceful out here. I can see why you chose it.”

Rosa only smiled.

They sat there for hours, until the sun rose over a new future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was never supposed to get this big. I’ve been limiting the length of these chapters to 5-6k words because I don’t want to burn myself out like I’ve done with previous stories, but this clocks in just shy of 10k. Ultimately the framing device didn’t lend itself well to splitting it into separate chapters, so enjoy this monster update that I started writing three days before I was scheduled to post it. I have an update schedule and I’m sticking to it, goddammit.
> 
> I’m surprised I was able to build this much of a narrative around Rosa var Attre, a minor character who only featured in two quests in the third game. Ultimately I didn’t want her story to end as a footnote to Ciri’s, so I churned out whatever this is. I also wanted to re-introduce characters we’d not have seen otherwise, like Nenneke, Tamara Strenger, and her witch hunter friend Graden. I’ve dropped some fairly unsubtle hints as to Magdalene’s true identity, so I don’t think I need to spell it out.
> 
> I tried to hew more closely to the style of the short stories from the first couple of Witcher books, which don’t spend an overly long time showcasing every moment in a relationship. The framing device allowed me to skip over a lot of things that would have made this chapter at least twice as long. They say it’s better to show instead of tell, but in this case I was able to quickly get to the moments that were actually worth exploring.
> 
> We really should check back in on Ciri soon, what with her being the main character and all. That’s probably going to be the next update, unless I change my mind in the next two weeks. Happy Holidays to all.


	31. The Calm Before The Storm

In endless rows, enormous waves crashed hard against an unyielding cliff, which rose high into the air. Sharp, unforgiving rocks decorated the shore, waiting for the sea to bring them something to wreck. Her wings carried her above the spray of the water, above the cliff, and into the clouds, where at last the sun shone upon her.

Then space folded in around her and she was hurled across the universe, finding herself in a small cave. A group of shadowed figures walked past her, carrying a small cage before them which contained a small bird, though she couldn’t tell what kind. She knew the reason they had brought it; dangerous, odorless gasses hid like vipers in these sorts of caverns, and if the bird died, the others would have enough time to escape.

After taking a few more steps into the darkness, the group collapsed to the ground, dead. The bird was still alive and flitted about its cage, trying to escape. She could do nothing but watch as a fox emerged from the darkness, circling the cage not with hunger, but curiosity. Occasionally it got close enough to sniff, but never dared to open it; never wanted to risk the bird inside flying free.

The whole world shifted again, and more bodies appeared. She could not see their faces, but still felt as though she knew them. The cage lay broken on the ground, mangled beyond salvation. She looked above, shielding her eyes from the sudden rain, and saw the bird, a falcon, circling high above.

And then she saw nothing around her.

It wasn’t an absence of sensation—instead there was nothing to see. The void stretched on into infinity, boundless and desolate. She had legs again, and began to walk, stopping when she saw her reflection rising up to meet her.

Her mirrored self flashed a wicked grin, and then the image of her shattered, leaving only cruel laughter that echoed all around her. Ciri whirled in a circle, but saw only blackness. More mirrors came into existence as she turned, and she saw her friends, her family, her allies and her enemies, all of them trapped inside the looking glass.

And all of them broke into pieces, one after the other.

She tried to scream, but her mouth produced no sound. When the last of the mirrors had shattered, the inky void was replaced by an ocean of stars, surrounding her as she stood atop nothing, staring out into infinity.

“ _Va'esse deireádh aep eigean,_ ” said a resonant, vaguely female voice, sourceless and somehow all around her. “ _Va'esse eigh faidh'ar_. You and I will become one, and we shall bring order to this poisoned universe. You carry the most of what remains of me, and it shall be mine again. Enjoy yourself, while you can.”

With that, the stars flared so brightly it still hurt even when she closed her eyes, and she was filled by a cold, indescribable dread.

* * *

Ciri’s eyes burst open as she catapulted awake, clutching her forehead and breathing rapidly while her eyes opened as wide as they possibly could. Despite the snow outside, her body was thick with sweat. Taking deep, measured breaths, she convinced her heart to stop pounding so frantically, looking down at the woman next to her, who had awoken as well.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insisted, unconvincingly. “Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s never just a nightmare with you,” said Mistle, lying on her side with her elbow resting on the ground, hand propping up her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I need to process what I experienced first,” she replied. “But later, yes.”

“I’ll be here,” she said. “When you’re ready.”

“Thank you. Good night, Mistle.”

“Good night, Ciri.”

* * *

“Well,” said Rosalind Vassay, examining the small, dank cellar before her, hands planted on her hips. “I think it’s safe to say they’re gone.”

“You think?” Emelie looked up from where she was kneeled down over a corpse in full plate armor, whose leg was halfway across the room. “Look at that. What sort of thing does that to a man?”

The two of them had volunteered to check out the cellar, mostly because they were the least bothered by the smell of rotting flesh. The villagers hadn’t quite worked up the courage to clean out the space yet, believing it to be cursed. Both of them found it ludicrous. The only thing they were in danger of was ghouls finding the bodies, which by some miracle hadn’t happened already.

“The villagers say it was a werewolf,” she answered. “Which fits with what we already know about this gang. Looks like I’ll need to plate my arrowheads in silver.”

“We’re not likely to find anything more down here. Let’s join the others.”

Rosalind nodded, and they climbed the ladder out of the cellar, into the small shack that rested above it, where Bruno and Leisl were waiting. The snow crunched beneath them, and their breath escaped in little clouds of heat, trying to warm up the rest of the universe.

Bruno had draped his entire hand over Leisl’s head, keeping her warm in the chill afternoon air. She ducked down and walked towards them as they approached, while Emelie continued walking and made her way over to the mountain of a man.

“Did you find anything?”

“Just bodies,” she replied. “But the Rats were definitely here.”

Leisl nodded. “We spoke with a few of the villagers. Their leader, Mistle, rode in a few days back, accompanied by a dark-haired woman with a Toussaintois accent, and an ashen-haired witcher with green eyes and a scar across her left cheek.”

“A female witcher? They weren’t just pulling your leg?”

“Had a sword on her back and everything. Even accepted a contract from the ealdorman. And that wasn’t the only thing we learned.”

“Oh really?”

She rubbed her arms, trying not to shiver. “You remember the witcher and sorceress I told you about? The ones who fought the Rats when they marched into Unicorn? They were here as well. The odd part is that the two witchers seemed to know each other, and visited the ealdorman together.”

Rosalind wrapped an arm around her shoulders and brought their bodies closer together, and they started to walk back towards the village. Emelie and Bruno followed after them.

“Not surprising that two witchers would know each other,” said Emelie. “But you’re right, it is odd that one of them would accompany the leader of the bandits that the other was hunting, only for them to reunite like old pals.”

“Mistle wasn’t with them for the raid in Unicorn,” Leisl pointed out. “No one seems to know anything about the woman from Toussaint, either. Only that she asked the innkeep for a copper pot.”

“Where are Daxyl and Amandine?”

“Investigating the ealdorman’s house. Apparently he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Then let’s head that way.”

They travelled back into the village, towards the ealdorman’s house. The door had been wrenched off its hinges with extreme force, and the inside had been looted bare. The only objects that remained were those too large to carry, including a desk, some chairs, and an unnecessarily large portrait of the house’s former owner. Everything else was gone.

Daxyl Renard, the group’s chief strategic mind, was currently kneeling over a pile of ashes, rubbing them between his fingers. Amandine stood over him with her arms crossed, holding silent vigil over the room as she scanned for anything of note.

“These ashes…” he said. “They’re too heavily concentrated in this spot to have come from the fireplace. I think perhaps…” He looked up as the rest of them arrived, filtering into the room and standing around him in a circle. “Ah good; you’re here. Was there anything at the Rats’ safehouse?”

“Only corpses,” said Rosalind. “There’s definitely a werewolf travelling with the gang. From the look of things, it went on a rampage and tore straight through a couple of soldiers. The strange thing is, those men belonged to the Impera Brigade.”

Leisl wrinkled her brow in confusion. “The who?”

“The Emperor’s personal guards,” she clarified. “I know we’re not the only ones looking for the Rats, but why send them?”

“There can be only one reason,” said Daxyl. “His Imperial Majesty must have taken a personal interest in this investigation. It’s not hard to see why, considering it involves his daughter.”

The rest of them, save Amandine, took a step back and stared at him in shock. “WHAT?”

He shrugged. “The villagers described an ashen-haired young witcheress with green eyes and a scar on her left cheek, who accompanied the leader of the Rats when they rode into town. Do none of you remember what happened five years ago, when the entire Empire was searching for a girl meeting that description?”

The rest of them nodded and murmured, except for Leisl. “I haven’t heard that story.”

“It’s a simple one. The Child of Prophecy, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, was sought after by nearly every major world leader ever since the fall of Cintra. The story goes that she was restored to her rightful throne, but few know what really happened. Following Vilgefortz’s  failed coup on the Isle of Thanedd, she disappeared through a portal, and His Imperial Majesty ordered the entire Empire searched, Ebbing in particular. Her name came up in connection with the Rats back then, too.”

“You can give her a history lesson later,” said Emelie. “What relevance does this have?”

“That remains to be seen. But it does make our mission more… complicated.”

She nodded. “I don’t imagine killing the Emperor’s daughter was implied in our orders.”

 “There’s something else amiss,” said Rosalind. “This all happened the night of the full moon. Which means the werewolf wasn’t in control of his transformation.”

“So?”

“So why were none of the villagers harmed?” asked Leisl, catching on to what she had left unsaid. “According to the ones we questioned, they gathered a large group with torches and pitchforks, but the beast was nowhere to be found.”

Emelie shrugged. “Perhaps it ran off?”

“Unlikely, if it had already tasted blood,” Daxyl replied. “At any rate, the exact details of what happened are less important than where our quarry might be headed next.”

Rosalind crossed her arms and cocked one hip to the side. “Tracking their footprints is right out. The snow buried everything.”

“A group like that leaves a different kind of trail,” said Emelie. “We just need to wait for them to cause another ruckus.”

“And get there after they’ve already gone? Like we’ve done the last two times?”

“Do you have any better suggestions?”

Leisl squinted, resting a thumb on her chin and covering her lips with one finger. “Perhaps we should try the opposite. Bring them to us.”

They all turned to look at her. Daxyl appeared to give it some thought, stroking his wiry goatee as he rose to full height and began to pace. “Lure them into a trap, you mean?”

“Precisely. I heard Tomen and his boys hatch similar schemes many times. Most bandits can be flushed out of hiding by tempting them with a prize too lucrative to ignore. The Rats mostly attack merchant wagons, plus the odd military caravan. We get our hands on one of those, drive it through an area they’re known to frequent, and wait for them to come to us.”

Rosalind patted her on the small of her back. “See? I told you this work would suit you.”

“That leaves us with the problem of actually getting our hands on something like that,” Emelie pointed out. “You wouldn’t happen to know any rich merchants, would you?”

Amandine, who had remained silent throughout all of this, smirked. “As a matter of fact…”

* * *

The fighting arena in Claremont was, despite its dubious legal standing, a fixture of the community. It served as a gathering place for the elite; a place where the more affluent members of society could come together and watch those less fortunate than themselves fight for glory and coin. Houvenaghel held as many meetings here as possible: his words seemed to have more weight behind them with such a potent reminder of mortality as a backdrop.

The man sitting across from him, watched from either corner of the luxury box overlooking the arena by two guards in full plate, did not seem impressed by the lavish display, but was polite enough to at least feign interest in the conversation.

“And I must say, business is booming here in Ebbing,” he said. “We’ve seen an eight percent increase across our grain, leather, and textile exports, and the workshops are churning out more product than we know what to do with. I recently signed a deal to transport goods across the Korvath desert, to reach markets in Zerrikania. My men will trade there for a time, then come back with exotic goods so tantalizing the nobles won’t be able to resist!”

Morvran Voorhis, General of the Alba Division and leader of the Guild of Merchants, hardly reacted to the news.

“A truly impressive turn of fortune, Mister Houvenaghel. But you may dispense with the boasting, for I come on a far more important matter.”

“But of course. Anything for the Guild Leader.”

“Recently, in the village of Unicorn, there were a series of strange occurrences,” said Voorhis. “The first happened twelve days after Saovine, when a group of bandits assaulted the tavern. Three days later, there was reportedly a display of intense magical power, and said tavern was destroyed. His Imperial Majesty has ordered a full investigation into both incidents.”

Craning his head back, Houvenaghel stared at him curiously. “That seems strange indeed. But why should it concern me?”

“Because everything in Ebbing concerns you. Reports from the scene indicate that, on the second of these occurrences, a violent altercation occurred involving a man named Caelan, as well as a former knight from Vicovaro, Emil Kravenoff. Both were killed, and both have served you in the past.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do not try and play coy,” said the General. “I am under no illusions as to how you maintain your control over this province of the Empire. Neither is His Imperial Majesty. You prosper at his mercy, for the results you achieve are useful. But lying is the fastest way to squander that goodwill.”

A cold chill ran down his spine as Voorhis stared at him with dead eyes. With most people, Houvenaghel could appeal to either their greed or their fear, but the man in front of him would be moved by neither, and could squash him with barely a word. No amount of trickery would work, so reluctantly, he gave honesty a try.

“Kravenoff led a gang of enforcers,” he revealed. “Caelan numbered among them. From what my spies report, Caelan was beating his missus, and a local bounty hunter named Tomen took him prisoner for killing a cunning woman. Emil and the boys set out to rescue him, but… it didn’t exactly go their way.”

“I should think not, else they would still be alive.”

“They weren’t able to find much else. After Caelan got taken prisoner, most of the tavern patrons left, and the next thing everyone knows there’s a crater where the tavern used to be. No one’s quite sure what caused it.”

“I have my own theories. A few days after this event took place, the Chief Inspector in charge of the official investigation found his way to the neighboring village of Dun Dâre, where his unit was attacked in the middle of the night by a werewolf. He was taken to a garrison some ten miles away, where his report was passed up through the ranks, until it reached my ears earlier this morning. In the meantime, the ealdorman of the village has gone missing.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Indeed. Before his disappearance, the ealdorman met with a witcher from the School of the Wolf. This same witcher, I’m told, met with you a short time after the original incident in Unicorn.”

Houvenaghel leaned back, relaxing a bit now that he could sense where the conversation was headed. “It wasn’t the witcher I met with, but his companion. He merely stood in the corner and watched the fights.”

“Who was this companion?”

“A sorceress named Keira Metz,” he revealed. “We had a matter of business to attend; a product she wanted me to manufacture. We were discussing the issue of transporting the goods with all the bandits in the region, and came to an accord: if they helped me deal with a gang that’s been so ruthlessly attacking my caravans, I’d be willing to lower my asking price for the goods, thus facilitating their sale much more quickly.”

Fetching a piece of bread from the table, he broke it down the middle and gestured with the two halves. “You want to know the really interesting part? This same gang was involved in that incident in Unicorn.”

Voorhis nodded. “The Rats.”

“I see you’re familiar.”

“It so happens I also have a vested interest in seeing this gang destroyed,” said the General. “So I am here to offer what help I can. There is a covert unit under my command that is committed to eliminating them, and they are already in the area. I only ask that you do not get in their way, and that you provide them with assistance as required.”

“But of course. May I ask who they are?”

“My men will fill you in on the details.” Voorhis stood, and his guards moved closer, flanking him protectively. “Now I ride for Nilfgaard. May the Great Sun light your way.”

Houvenaghel bowed. “To you as well. Good luck on your journey.”

Giving him a slight nod, Voorhis walked past him, out of the booth, his guards following immediately after.

* * *

The noonday sun crested at the apex of the clear blue sky, shining down through the canopy of the forest and forming crosshatched shadows along the ground. A series of tents had been pitched around a central fire, and the various members of the Rats milled about, gathering food before joining the circle. Ciri and Mistle sat next to each other, with Syanna flanking the latter and Lambert sitting next to the ashen haired one.

One by one they all sat down, and as they ate, Ciri began to speak.

“I’d like to start by thanking all of you for your patience. We didn’t all get to know each other under the best circumstances, and there are some questions that need answering. I shall do my best to tell the whole story.”

“I shall as well,” said Mistle. “There should be no secrets among us. I realize that now.”

“Let’s start with what we know,” continued Ciri. “Five days after Saovine, I was wounded and robbed in my sleep by these two.” She gestured to Sheana and Faloanthír. “I managed to make my way some five miles to a tavern, where I was saved from bleeding out by a man who introduced himself as Gaunter O’Dimm. In exchange for his help, he proposed a deal. He would tell me where to find the bandits that robbed me, provided I convinced the leader of these bandits to accompany me to a trading post at a crossroads some twenty miles from a village called Jealousy. I had no idea he was sending me to Mistle.”

“Why wouldn’t you suspect that?” asked Keira.

Mistle looked at her solemnly. “Because as far as she knew, I was dead.”

“Over five years ago, the Rats were slaughtered by a bounty hunter named Leo Bonhart,” Ciri informed them. “I was the only survivor. Mistle died right in front of me, her insides spilling out of her, and then I was made to watch as he cut off her head.”

“I don’t remember much about the afterlife,” said Mistle. “I think I might have been a ghost for a bit. All I remember is that I was approached by this same Gaunter O’Dimm, who offered me a deal: I would return to the land of the living, with a new body, a new gang, and he would fulfill one wish of my choice. In exchange, he would collect my soul in two years’ time. But before he could, he would have to fulfill three more wishes for me, but not by himself. He would need to make use of a proxy.”

“Which is where I came in,” said Ciri. “After learning everything we have, it seems no accident that Sheana and Faloanthír were guided to me, unaware of any greater plan. Mistle had wished for me, you see, and he twisted that to make me the mechanism by which he would be allowed to take her soul. I imagine the cruel irony was too delicious for him to resist.”

“What sort of creature is he, to be capable of making pacts like that?” asked Keira. “A demon?”

“I don’t know. But Geralt had to do the same thing for him once.”

“Geralt? Really? I’d have thought he’d be smarter than to get involved in all that.”

“When he revealed himself to me,” said Horace, “He told me part of the deal he made with Mistle was that our fates were his to decide. That’s why he rescued us from the witcher and sorceress.”

“As I said, he was to provide me with a new gang,” Mistle replied. “You’ve all had some sort of tragedy in your past; something that pushed you into this way of living. It’s hardly beyond his ability to influence events like that, guiding your destinies along a path that led you here.”

“But that all happened well before your resurrection,” said Sheana. “My father hanged himself more than three years ago for instance, and Resilda was burned during the second Northern War.”

“Gaunter O’Dimm doesn’t experience time the way you do,” said Ciri. “I suppose I don’t either, when you think about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a Child of the Elder Blood,” she revealed. “It’s an ancient power passed down through elven bloodlines that gives me command over time and space. I can go where I please, even into other worlds, other times. Gaunter O’Dimm has the same power, on a much grander scale. Triss thinks that’s the reason he’s so interested in me. He may well have been after me since before I was born. It’s not like he’d be the only one.”

“You mean the Wild Hunt?” said Keira, and Ciri nodded. “I can see why he’d take notice of you. But I thought it was your girlfriend’s soul he was after?”

“As far as I know, that was just his roundabout way of ensnaring me in a deal,” she said, pointing to the marks on her forehead. “If I fail to complete my assigned task, he’ll capture my soul instead. But I don’t think that’s what he’s after. He wants my power, just like everyone else. But for what, I can’t imagine.”

“There’s another problem,” said Lambert. “Keira and I have heard the name Leo Bonhart before. From the man who hired us.”

Ciri’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“Dominik Bombastus Houvenaghel,” said Keira. “An exceedingly gaudy gentleman in Claremont who controls half the businesses in Ebbing.”

The fire flared slightly as she reacted to that. “Still? Geralt, Yennefer, and I burned down all he had after leaving Stygga Castle. The insurance can’t have saved him, because he owned that too. In the end he was ruined. How in the blazes has he recovered so quickly?”

“I can guess,” said Mistle, and they all nodded in understanding.

“Because he remains largely unopposed in this region, I was forced to go through him to manufacture my cure for the Catriona plague,” said Keira. “I even gave him the formula for free. But he’s refusing to sell it on account of the bandit problem.”

The rest of the Rats, and Syanna as well, began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Houvenaghel doesn’t live in fear of bandits,” said Mistle. “He’s made deals with most of the larger _hanses_ to the point where he’s practically running them. He wants us gone because we’re the one of the few that won’t join. And we’re the only ones who still raid his caravans.”

“When Bonhart had me as his prisoner, he brought me to Houvenaghel’s fighting arena,” said Ciri, glaring at the fire. “I was forced to kill for others’ sick entertainment. Occasionally I still have nightmares about it.”

“That does it,” said Lambert, slamming a fist against his knee. “The whoreson’s gotta die.”

“Easier said than done,” Syanna replied. “His reach is felt even in Nazair. He’s a member of the Merchant’s Guild, a high ranking one at that. He has the guards bought and paid for, and as Mistle pointed out, the _hanses_ around here are in his pocket. We’d have to fight through an army.”

“Well, let’s do a headcount,” said Sheana. “We’ve got a witcher, a sorceress, a werewolf, and if Resilda ever gets her powers under control she’d be a force to be reckoned with. We’ve also got a top notch archer, some skilled fighters, and whatever the hell Ciri is. Besides, Mistle’s basically invulnerable now.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask about that, actually.” She turned to Mistle. “When Gaunter O’Dimm provided you with a new body, are you sure it was a human one?”

“As far as I know,” she replied. “Though it’s true: wounds don’t seem to stay on me more than few seconds.”

Syanna’s eyes narrowed. “There is a species known for that particular kind of resilience. I should have recognized it sooner, given that I slept with one for so long.”

“Wait,” said Ciri. “You’re saying she’s a…?”

“It makes as much sense as anything else that’s happened. They look perfectly human, and they don’t set off witcher medallions.”

“So if I’m a vampire now, how did I get hypnotized by one?” Mistle asked. “If not for you Orianna probably would have bled me dry.”

“Your form is new. This body is only two years old, and it takes higher vampires centuries to hone their powers. You won’t be capable of anything we saw Regis doing the other night, but I’ve spent enough time around vampires that I can probably help you discover some new tricks.”

“If we’re going to be training,” said Keira, gesturing to Resilda. “I’d be willing to help this one over here learn to manage her power.”

The pyromancer stared mutely at her for several moments, then nodded.

“Wonderful.”

“And I could stand to practice my witcher skills,” said Ciri, smirking at Lambert. “If you’re able to keep up.”

He scowled at her, but the corners of his lips pulled upward a bit. “Oh, you’re in for it.”

“And what are the rest of us supposed to do?” asked Horace.

“I could do with some sword lessons,” said Sheana, looking at Ciri. “Mind if I join you?”

“The more the merrier. If we’re going to take on an army, we could use all the help we can get.”

“Hold on, _vatt’ghern_ ,” said Faloanthír. “Not all of us have agreed to this yet.”

“Yeah,” added Horace, glaring at Mistle. “I’m still pissed you didn’t tell us all this from the start.”

“What do you want me to say?” She sat there utterly disaffected, resting her palms on the ground behind her. “I honestly didn’t think Gaunter O’Dimm was ever coming back, nor did I imagine he’d find anyone worthy of fulfilling three wishes for me. But Ciri’s already taken care of one.”

“Two, actually. I’ll show you later.”

“Then I shall need to think of a third. In the meantime, I see no reason not to go after the kin of the man who murdered me. Sheana’s right; with the lot of you at our backs we stand a fairly good chance.”

“Well we can’t just charge straight in there,” said Keira. “Lambert and I may be able to get him alone if we arrange another meeting. I know a dozen spells that could put him in the dirt, and there’s always a witcher’s blade if that fails.”

“No,” said Ciri. “He won’t go for that. He’s smarter than you think.” Her eyes narrowed. “Besides, this is personal. I need to kill him myself.”

“It’s personal for me too,” said Lambert. “Let me do it.”

“The way I see it, we all stand to benefit from his death,” said Mistle. “You get revenge, and if his influence disappears, we’ll have a much easier time of things. But the only way this works is if we do it together.”

“That works for me,” said Ciri.

Keira nodded. “Me as well.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” said Syanna.

“And what about you lot?” Mistle looked over each of the Rats, who each gave her an affirming nod.

“We’d follow you anywhere,” said Sheana.

“Well then.” She stood. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

* * *

The village of Unicorn had seen better days. The tavern, located in the center of the village, was now a shattered wreck. Its walls were cracked and dilapidated, the door was embedded in a building across the street, and the roof had vanished entirely. Strange scorch marks lined the interior, radiating from a single, untouched point.

A pair of travelling boots thudded against the wood as a female form came to rest in the epicenter from which the destruction had spread. She wore fine, impossibly intricate robes whose patterns hid a multitude of stories long forgotten. A staff, hard and wooden and just as intricately carved, tapped down along the floor in several places, and the figure’s hands traced patterns in the air, leaving behind sparkling, evanescent trails that manifested into runes.

Her face was hidden behind a mask, cold and expressionless, obscuring all but the figure’s frosty blue eyes, with irises too wide to be human. Her ears came to a long, fine point, and her jet black hair fell behind her in three braids that joined together at the small of her back. She began to recite an incantation, her voice reverberating throughout the space like an echo chamber. The runes took on new life, pulsing brightly as they danced around her form.

The magic dissipated, and the figure smiled behind the mask.

“At last,” she said greedily, clenching her right hand into a fist as she drew her arm close to her chest. “I’ve found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've taken enough of a break from the main story that now it's time to get back into the swing of things. There's a lot of recapping in this chapter, but it's all done in service of recontextualizing what's happened so far, and it saves all of you the trouble of rereading the chapters in question.
> 
> It's been a while since we've seen Onyx Squadron, and they'll be playing a major role in this arc, along with Houvenaghel and whoever that was at the end. Ciri and the Rats are still the focus, of course, but it helps to change perspective from time to time.
> 
> We'll pick up from here in two weeks. Happy New Year, everybody!


	32. Breathing Room

“So then,” said Mistle once she and Ciri were alone together. “I understand you’ve fulfilled my second wish?”

The rest of the gang had divided into smaller groups, with Keira taking Resilda into a clearing while Lambert had begun schooling the others on advanced swordplay. Syanna was off by herself somewhere, waiting for the two of them to finish talking.

“Indeed.” Ciri fished something out of one of the pouches on her waist and handed it to her. “I present to you, as promised, a piece of my heart.”

She grasped the silver chain attached to the small medallion with a gloved hand, dangling it in front of her and watching it spin. “Fascinating. I assume it meets all the requirements?”

“It’s something physical, and it doesn’t really mean anything to anyone but me,” she explained, stepping in a circle around her, keeping her head trained on the other woman. “It belonged to Vesemir, an old witcher who… died, protecting me from the Wild Hunt. It was stolen from me by one of the Crones, but Lambert and Keira ended up retrieving it. Lambert said it was worthless to him, but he knew how much I treasured it.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it before.” She placed the medallion in one of her pouches. “The fact that I wished for it aside, it means a lot that you’d give this to me.”

“You’re welcome. Only one more wish to go.”

Mistle nodded solemnly. “About that. Have you considered exactly what will happen once it’s all done? Once my soul is open for him to take?”

“We do what Geralt said. I challenge O’Dimm to a battle of wits, and then we improvise.”

“That’s it? You don’t have any sort of plan for how to beat an immortal trickster powerful enough to stop time and raise the dead? You’re just going to wing it?”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll let me pick the challenge,” said Ciri. “But I’ve beaten impossible odds before. I made it back through the Spiral to this world when I’d just discovered my powers. Now that I’ve mastered them, there’s very little I can’t do.”

“Easy to say,” she replied, circling her. “But remember, you’re dealing with someone who has the same powers you do and more, and who’s had a lot more time to practice with them. You’re clever, but he’ll take that into account. We need to come up with a better plan.”

“I know.” She frowned. “But there’s still time. Have you figured out your last wish?”

 “Not quite. But I shall let you know.”

Ciri nodded. “Let’s go join the others.”

* * *

“Ah, here we are,” said Keira, gesturing to the large clearing to which she had brought the young pyromancer, the nearest trees some fifty feet from the center. Horace had accompanied them, not wanting to join the sword lesson being given to Sheana and Faloanthír. “We’re less likely to burn the forest down if we practice here.”

Resilda nodded, saying nothing.

“Now tell me, how did you discover your affinity for magic? You’re clearly self taught, but in my experience there’s usually some sort of inciting incident that leads to such a discovery.”

The other girl did not respond. Keira raised an eyebrow and turned to Horace.

“Can she not talk?”

He nodded. “She was trapped in a burning house during the Second Northern War. The Lyrian and Rivian partisans burned her village down, and the fire scorched out her voice. Can’t do more than mutter the occasional incantation, and even then it sounds like a dog from hell trying to speak.”

“Well, that’s no matter. We can communicate using telepathy. I’ll simply cast a spell to link our minds together and—”

Resilda backed away, shaking her head in terror.

“What? It’s completely painless, and I promise not to go rooting around any dark corners. It’s just to facilitate talking to one another.”

Her face did not change.

“Very well. At any rate, I promised to teach you the rudiments of magic, and so I shall. And I’ll limit myself to yes or no questions.”

She received a nod in response. She moved so that they were side by side, then straightened her arms and held them tight against her body, her fingers extending towards the ground.

“Excellent. Now, the first thing I’ll demonstrate is how to properly draw on The Power. Concentrate, and feel the world around you…”

Resilda did so, mimicking her stance and breathing deeply.

“What’s this supposed to do?” asked Horace, staring skeptically at them with his arms crossed while he tilted his head to the side. “You’re just standing there.”

Keira rolled her eyes. “Magic requires power to wield. A fact which proved inconvenient the other night, when I spent nearly all of it keeping your friend alive. It’s all around us, and a sorceress can draw on it from any one of the four elements. Water is easiest, which is why it’s a good thing there’s snow. There’s earth, of course, and the truly advanced can draw it from the air.”

“What about fire?”

“Exceedingly dangerous, but it can be done. Fire is pure energy, and so makes for the most powerful conduit. But as with all things relating to it, one must be careful not to burn in the process.”

“I still say it’s a bunch of hocus pocus.”

She glared at him. “I’ll remind you that your presence is not necessary for this lesson, since you’ve no magical talent at all. Keep pushing, and this hocus pocus will have you convinced you’re a snail, and you’ll be dragging yourself across the snow for the rest of the day. Does that sound fun?”

“Whatever.” He turned and walked away, back towards the camp. Resilda looked up at her inquisitively.

“Well, that’s enough of that. I want to see some fireworks. Show me what you can do.”

Nodding, she breathed in deeply, summoning forth a large fireball that crashed against a nearby boulder. Keira pursed her lips and stood there, impressed.

“Very well done. It seems you’ve become adept at getting around the somatic requirement for a spell of that magnitude. You _are_ special.”

Resilda cocked an eyebrow.

“What?”

She mouthed the word “somatic.”

“Oh, right. It means normally a spell of that power requires one to speak an incantation—to focus the magic, if you will. But like a blind man can find his way through a room with his hearing and and enhanced spatial awareness that his body develops in response to his disability, you’ve figured out an alternative, all by yourself. It’s most impressive.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Resilda smiled.

“Now do it again.”

She obliged, and they continued practicing for the next few hours.

* * *

Three swords flashed through the air, briefly colliding with each other before separating. Sheana and Faloanthír flanked their opponent from either side, but he rolled forward, and their swipes found no purchase. He had not so much as swung back yet, having merely challenged them to hit him, a task which they were failing miserably.

“Come on, did your grandma teach you to fight? You should be putting that blade where I’m going to be, not chasing after me.”

Sheana blazed forward, and he artfully parried the blow before pirouetting to her right and shoulder-checking her sideways, which sent her staggering into the elf. They both tumbled to the ground, and Lambert sheathed his sword, standing over them with his arms crossed.

“Now how did I do that?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “You’re too fast.”

Lambert shook his head. “Wrong. I just figured out your strategy. You two are used to fighting in tandem, so whenever you go in for the target, he’s already in position to follow up. All I had to do was memorize the pattern, then turn that against you by shoving you over to where I already knew he’d be.”

He extended both his hands, and pulled them to their feet. “Always be mindful of your opponent’s habits. It’s not that different from playing cards. The key is to disguise your tell.”

“We both understand that already,” said Faloanthír. “But you’re impossible to read. Neither of us are used to fighting witchers.”

“That explains why you only managed to wound me while I was asleep,” said Ciri, walking up to them. “But there’s no such thing as a fair fight. Take every advantage you can. Cheat, if you have to. All that really matters is survival. Honor’s not much use if you’re dead.”

“Another thing I don’t need explained to me.”

“Then why’d you agree to this lesson?” asked Sheana. “You always act like you know everything, but the last time we fought this guy we got our asses handed to us on a silver platter. He has to know something we don’t.”

He crossed his arms and huffed.

“When I trained with my commando,” he said, “we mainly focused on ambushes. Sneaking up on the enemy and destroying them before they ever knew we were there. You learned a noble’s version of swordplay, rife with flourishes and designed for dueling. My education came in the form of sticking my blade into a man’s gut.”

“That doesn’t mean you have nothing to learn.”

“Besides,” said Ciri, “she’s the one who stabbed me in my sleep.”

Sheana flashed an awkward, sheepish smile at her. “Again, sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry. As I said, you were merely a pawn in a much larger game.”

Lambert shrugged. “None of this makes a difference anyway. You both fight well enough that any normal person, even a Nilfgaardian soldier, wouldn’t be much of a match for you. But a witcher is something else entirely. We trained to fight things way more dangerous than the likes of you.”

“The Aen Seidhe never had much need of _vatt’gherns_ ,” he argued. “It’s humans who called for the mass extinction of monsters, who forced you into existence. We’d been branded as monsters ourselves as soon as the _dh’oine_ started claiming our land and destroying our people.”

“It’s not that cut and dry,” said Ciri. “A good number of elves became witchers of the Cat School. Besides, there’s no reason to have a pissing contest over this. We’re all on the same side here.”

“For all of what, a few days? Just because Mistle decided it doesn’t mean we all agree.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps we should bring her in on this conversation?”

He hesitated. “That won’t be necessary. Fine. Show me what you think I need to learn. But it had better be impressive.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” She turned to Lambert and drew her sword. “Shall we?”

A brief twirl of his blade was the Witcher’s only response.

She made the first move, feinting to the right before pirouetting left, and their swords collided as Lambert blocked the attack. She pushed off, and he rushed into the gap, thrusting towards her. She juked to the left turning her body so that the blade passed inches in front of her belly before he retracted it back and parried her follow up strike.

Changing stances, he dragged her blade upward, so that his was curved down towards her with his hands gripping the pommel as they rested behind his head. Releasing one hand from the sword, he formed the sign of Aard, and a wave of telekinetic force blasted towards her. By the time it reached Ciri, she was no longer there, disappearing in a flash of green light.

Lambert reacted inhumanly fast, catching her blade again as she reappeared behind him and swung down in a long, curved arc. He raised his foot up to kick her stomach, and she vanished again, this time manifesting a few feet away.

“What is that supposed to teach us?” asked Faloanthír. “Neither of us can do that.”

“I don’t have superhuman strength or reflexes, unlike a witcher who’s undergone the mutations,” said Ciri. “I’ll never defeat him with pure technique, because he’s stronger, faster, and more practiced than I am. This levels the playing field somewhat.”

Lambert nodded. “If it weren’t for that, I’d be dead already.”

“So what chance do we have?” asked Sheana. “We already tried working together and still didn’t manage to scratch you.”

“It’s like I said. Use the battlefield, and your opponent’s habits, to your advantage. Witchers are lone hunters, which means you stand a bigger chance at taking one down if you gang up on them. But I’m not training you to fight me. I’m just trying to help you break your own habits so your enemies won’t be able to do that to you.”

They both nodded, mumbling.

“Ready to try again?”

“Why not?” she said. “But Ciri’s on our team.”

Ciri grinned. “Can’t rightly say no to that.”

* * *

While Ciri and Lambert held a mock duel that garnered attention from all over the camp, Syanna and Mistle had retreated to a darker corner of the forest, where the trees were thick enough that the sun barely penetrated the canopy. They had left their swords behind, and Syanna stood with one arm tucked behind her back.

“You know, I’m rather curious how you didn’t figure any of this out before,” she said. “Surely you sensed something was amiss the first time a wound healed in only a few seconds.”

Mistle shrugged. “I just assumed it was Gaunter O’Dimm’s way of keeping me alive until our pact was complete,” she replied. “He seems really attached to the idea of jumping through hoops before he’s allowed to claim my soul.”

“It makes sense, I’ll give you that. But when he approached me after the ball, he made a point of saying that he saved me from Orianna because I did the same for you. That meant you were in real danger from her. The only thing that explains that is the fact that a higher vampire can only be truly killed by another of its kind.”

“That’s assuming he wasn’t lying to you.”

Syanna shrugged. “What reason would he have to lie? He’d already bared his true nature to me. Giving you the body of a higher vampire would prove an efficient means of keeping you alive until the terms of your contract are fulfilled.”

“While we were staying at his vineyard, Geralt talked about another man who was indebted to O’Dimm, Olgierd von Everec,” she replied. “He was just immortal. Covered in scars, sure, but his wounds healed just as immediately, and he couldn’t be killed. Until O’Dimm took his soul, anyway.”

“But your body has no scars,” said Syanna. “Not even the ones you would have accumulated in your previous life. Only vampires heal so efficiently.”

“I take your point. So what now? Shall I transform into a giant bat?”

She shook her head. “Every higher vampire has a unique talent, one they hone over centuries. Turning into a bat is Regis’ little trick, and Dettlaff’s was his ability to dominate the minds of lesser vampires, which he used to compel an army of them into attacking Beauclair. Yours could be something else entirely.”

“Well how do we figure out what it is?”

“First things first.” She removed one of her travelling gloves, and pulled up her sleeve. “You need to drink some of my blood.”

Mistle jumped away, leaning back in bewilderment. “What? Are you insane?”

“Arguable, but I’m certain of what I’m doing. Drinking blood can help energize you, and put you in a state where you can discover new powers. I’m told it feels like getting drunk on a fine vintage.”

“But won’t that turn you into one too? Or do you need to drink my blood for that?”

“Vampires are another species, not a disease,” said Syanna. “If getting your blood sucked by a vampire turned you into one, we’d be outnumbered by vampires by the millions. Don’t fret, I’ve done this before. I let Dettlaff drink of my blood rather often while we were together.”

“Why? To put him in the mood?”

“Occasionally, though more often it was because it put him in better spirits. He was often brooding, and since normal alcohol wouldn’t get him drunk, I helped him cut loose.” She grinned crookedly. “Does that surprise you?”

“Well, yes. I’d have thought someone like you would have more self-preservation than that.”

“Higher vampires can survive perfectly fine without drinking blood,” she explained. “Just like other species can survive without alcohol. But it makes life so much more fun. He didn’t force it on me. It was actually my idea half the time. I think I was attracted to the taboo of it all.”

She stared at the offered forearm warily. “What if I can’t control it? What if I drain you?”

“I’m reasonably certain two witchers could bring you back under control if it comes to that. But I don’t think we’ll need them.”

“Does that mean you trust me?”

“I trust no one, not completely. But I have faith that you can moderate yourself.” She produced a knife, and ran the blade horizontally below her wrist, on the inside of her forearm. “Go ahead.”

Hesitantly, she brought the arm closer to her mouth, then ran her tongue over the blood.

It tasted _amazing_.

“Careful,” said Syanna, firmly and unafraid. “Pace yourself. Savor it.”

She nodded, bringing the wound to her lips and beginning to suck on it. Her head began to feel light, and Mistle remembered the first time she’d stolen an old bottle of wine, sharing it with a tailor’s daughter whose lips tasted like strawberries. Her whole body felt warm and excited, and she drew back, savoring the rush.

Before she could stop herself, she lunged forward, taking Syanna by the lips and drawing her into a passionate kiss, smearing the other woman’s blood all over her face. Then her senses came back to her and she shoved Syanna away, covering her mouth in embarrassment.

Grinning, the other woman wiped the blood off her lips, tucking the wounded arm behind her back.  “See? I knew you could handle it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s quite alright. That was hardly my first kiss.”

“Don’t tell Ciri.”

Syanna’s smile did not leave her face. “You were caught up in a moment of passion. You’re telling me you didn’t go crazy the first time you had a drink? Believe me, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Right,” she said breathlessly, clutching her forehead and facing away. “Of course not. So what now?”

“Now we’ll discover what you can do.” She drew her sleeve back down over her forearm, and reattached her glove. “Come on; let’s see how well you can hunt.”

* * *

Stephanos was still resting near the fire, engrossed in a book that the sorceress had lent him. The wound on his chest had finally closed, leaving a long, razor-thin scar that looked much healthier than the horrible gash it had been only a few days prior. He heard footsteps from behind, and allowed Horace to take a seat next to him.

“You’re not training either?”

He shook his head. “I’m training my mind. I’d like to get out of more of these situations using my head than…”

“Right. But you’re feeling better? You’ve got it under control?”

He did, more so than ever. Before, even with the magic necklace, Stephanos had been aware at every moment of the beast waiting to claw its way out of him and lay waste to everything around. The charm had enabled him to focus that aggression and command it to some degree, but ever since he’d been saved from his rampage, he felt as though the two halves of himself were in perfect harmony for the first time.

Stephanos didn’t have to say any of this to the man next to him, who understood it all from the nod he sent his way.

“I’m sorry for bringing all this down on us, mate,” he said. “If we hadn’t gone to that village you’d not have been in all that agony.”

 “Nor would I have found peace,” he said. “That’s the silver lining in all this. There’s no sense in focusing on the bad things that happened to us. We should learn see this as an opportunity, not punishment.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mistle’s happy for once. She finally got her lover back. Sheana’s more focused now that she sees an opportunity to learn new skills. Even Resilda has a mentor now. You and the elf are the only ones choosing to stay bitter about this.”

“Somehow I’m finding it hard to muster excitement knowing I never had a choice in any of this,” said Horace. “If this Gaunter O’Dimm fellow can really control our fates like that… well what’s the point in thinking anything we do has meaning?

Stephanos smiled calmly. “Even if he didn’t, no one can really choose where they start in life, nor what happens to them along the way. The only thing you can really control is how you respond to it. We all decided to take it out on the world. But now I think we might be part of something bigger. Something that could make a real difference.”

“Right, I forgot. You always did have a thing for greater causes.”

“I signed up to serve the glory of the Empire,” he said. “But once we tasted real combat it became about protecting the lives of my friends. Being a brigand isn’t much different. I’d die for any one of you, the same as I would have for my fellow soldiers.”

“As would I. But these new folks… call me paranoid, but I don’t entirely trust them.”

“Have they not proven themselves? Were it not for them I’d be dead, and the rest of you would have been caught and hanged by now. I know it can be tough, opening yourself up after everything you’ve lost. But would your family really want you to be hateful and untrusting all your life? Or would they want you to move on, and learn how to love again?”

“This isn’t about them,” he said. “This is about Mistle’s new friends wanting us to go on a suicide mission. What do I care if this Houvenaghel gets his comeuppance? He’s done nothing to me.”

“But we’ve wronged him,” Stephanos pointed out. “We’ve raided his caravans, killed people who work for him. It’s because he hates us so much that the witcher and sorceress were hired to hunt us down. We can’t rely on getting everyone he sends after us to join the gang instead.”

Horace stared at the fire. “Suppose you’re right. Like always.”

They sat there in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

An hour before sundown they all gathered around the fire again, returning in small groups. Horace and Stephanos were already there, then came Keira and Resilda, followed by Sheana, Faloanthír, Lambert, and Ciri.

Mistle and Syanna were last, and arrived hauling a large stag. The others looked upon them with confusion, seeing as they carried no implements that could have been used to down the beast. There was a fresh wound on its neck, and as Mistle drew closer to the fire they saw her mouth was caked in blood.

“Well,” said Keira. “That confirms it.”

With unusual bashfulness, Mistle dropped the stag at Ciri’s feet, and the ashen-haired woman rose up and embraced her, pulling her into a tight hug before going for her lips. She pulled back, to Ciri’s bewilderment.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re not even going to wait for me to clean up first?”

She answered that by laying a long and passionate kiss upon her, transferring the blood to her own lips. “No need. It’s actually rather… hot.”

Mistle stared at her blankly.

Flashing a smile, Ciri turned away and sat in front of the fire, while Stephanos and Lambert began carving up the stag. Before long the meat was cooking over the fire, and they sat around telling each other of how each group had fared.

“I dare say we made excellent progress today,” said Keira. “Her technique reminds me of the wild mages of legend, who predated the institutionalized use of magic and understood it as a primal force. Some of those traditions survive in Zerrikania, where they draw the Power from fire. It’s likely how she first awoke to her potential, what with her house burning around her and all.”

“I’ve drawn from fire before,” said Ciri, and Mistle sent her a knowing look. “Didn’t go so well for me.”

“Yes, it can be rather dangerous, but if you can control it, the power is overwhelming.”

“These two did fine with a sword,” said Lambert. “They’ll hold their own against whatever thugs we might face, even soldiers. Though I’d still rather just kill this guy myself.”

“As would we all,” said Mistle. “But we’re stronger together.”

He scowled, but said nothing in response.

“How’d you bring down the deer?” asked Sheana. “Did you turn into a bat?”

She shook her head. “Honestly, it’s all a blur. I remember chasing it, then tackling it to the ground and drawing blood from its neck until it died. Didn’t taste how I thought it would, but I found the experience rewarding.”

Ciri turned towards her. “How _did_ it taste?”

“Different than human blood. A touch more sour. I’m not much of a connoisseur, I’m afraid.”

Lambert narrowed his eyes at her. “How do you know what human blood tastes like?”

“I let her drink some of mine,” said Syanna, and all eyes turned towards her. “What? I had to prime her for the hunt.”

“Oh,” said Ciri, quietly. She glanced off to the side, opening her mouth to speak, but decided against it. Mistle squinted at her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk about it later.”

Craning her head back, she nodded. “Alright.”

The rest of the meal alternated between long bouts of silent and idle conversation, until the sun disappeared over the horizon and they all drew closer to the fire. Roughly an hour later, Lambert’s ears perked up, as did those of Stephanos and Mistle, who all scanned around the forest.

“Do you hear something?”

Lambert nodded slowly. “Yeah. Headed this way. Pretty sure it’s human.”

Horace stood and nocked an arrow in his bow, pointing it towards the darkness. A twig cracked, and he aimed in that direction. “Who goes there?!”

A man emerged from the darkness, looking haggard and not at all well-rested. He had a sword on his waist, but his hands were up, and he walked towards them slowly. “Please. I only want to talk.”

“Identify yourself!”

He stood there hesitantly. Stephanos rose, gently guiding Horace’s bow down. “It’s alright. I know this man. His name is Tomen. We were soldiers together, in the Alba Division.” He narrowed his eyes. “Though I hear he works as a bounty hunter these days.”

Tomen shook his head. “Not anymore. Not since Unicorn. Marco, Rubenn, Genette… all slaughtered. To a man. What I saw… I fear you shan’t believe me.”

He smirked. “Try me.”

Slowly, Tomen lowered his hands. “Someone… some _thing_ is coming for you all. And none of you are safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the plot-heavy recap of the previous chapter, I wanted to spend this one exploring these characters and how they play off of each other. There hasn't been much time for that until now, and I wanted to flesh out the individual members of the Rats some more. I'm happy with how it came out.


	33. And They Call It Elaine Dearme

The village of Malhoun was a quiet, unassuming Nilfgaardian settlement with decent people, some livestock, a few farms, and an inn that Leisl took one look at before deciding that spending another night in the woods didn’t sound all that bad.

“Afraid you’ll blow this one up too?” Rosalind asked her, leaning in with half her mouth open and smirking.

“Am I that easy to read?”

“I can relate, you know. I can’t get within a few ells of a hunting lodge without wanting to set it on fire.”

Craning her head back, Leisl examined her quizzically. They were standing just off the main road, across from the inn. The rest of the group had gone to the market for supplies, while the two of them had been left to their own devices. It was already sunset and Claremont was a few days’ ride away, so they decided to take advantage of civilization while they could. At least the rest of them did.

“I’m sensing there’s a story there.”

“Which I will gladly tell you over a drink,” the other woman said enchantingly, gesturing towards the inn. “But we needn’t have one in there. I’ve a couple bottles of wine in my bag, and some whiskey if you’re after something stronger. Wanna go get drunk in the woods?”

Leisl couldn’t stop the silly grin that spread across her face like a slow sunrise. “You don’t need to ask me twice.”

They turned on their heels and headed towards the trees, in the direction of a lake they’d been told was breathtaking this time of year, when the surface hardened into ice and everything grew still except for a million falling snowflakes. The snow was hard and packed this close to the village, but as they ventured further out it became deeper, and they had to raise their knees higher with every step.

“Something I’ve been wondering,” said Rosalind, already taking a swig of the promised wine. “How’d  you end up becoming a tavern girl? You clearly have the talent to be so much more than that.”

“Honestly, it was easy pay,” she answered. “It was one of the few professions where someone with my reputation could still make an honest living. See, when a man’s been on the road a while, he grows to desire certain comforts when he comes to an inn. I provided those comforts… for a price.”

“And you didn’t care what anyone in the village said about it?”

“Why should I have? All the other girls had already shunned me when I was fifteen and my exploits became the talk of the village. Besides, no matter which tavern you go to, certain types of men will demand such a service whether it’s offered or not. Why not turn a profit off of it?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said. “Did you encounter many of them?”

“Most certainly. Tomen and his boys were regulars. Occasionally soldiers would come in, and let me tell you, when a man’s gone that long without a fuck, he pays up handsomely. If they were especially sauced I’d usually just take their whole purse before the end of the night. Had a lot stored away before all that madness happened.”

“Sleep with any bandits?”

“I suppose Caelan counts, though I didn’t know it at the time. Honestly, aside from the Rats, most bandits didn’t really go near the village, especially since so many bounty hunters drank there.”

Rosalind nodded along, taking another swig before passing the bottle. “You mentioned being shunned at fifteen. How’d that come about?”

“Did you see that girl who ran out of the tavern crying? The slutty one with her tits ready to burst out of her dress?”

“Difficult not to.”

“One night when we were young and stupid we both decided we were fed up with men and kept each other warm for the night,” Leisl elaborated. “Then we woke up and she told me to keep the whole thing secret, saying it was a mistake and that her parents would disown her if they found out. Broke my damn heart, but I kept that promise, even after she told everyone I’d been sleeping around with all their men. Which to be fair was true, but she was doing the same thing and nobody stopped being friends with her.”

“So what did you say to make her cry?”

“She tried to force herself on me in the back room,” she said. “Wasn’t like her at all. She said all the things I’d wanted to hear her say that morning we woke up in her barn, only it all came years too late. All I wanted to do was rip her heart out so she’d know what it felt like. So that’s what I did.”

“Harsh, but understandable. Hopefully she learns from the experience.”

“I could give a toss what happens to her at this point,” said Leisl. “That whole fucking village can burn down for all I care.”

“Did you have any family there? We didn’t think to ask, what with the cries of ‘burn the witch’ and all.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t remember very much about my parents. I know my mother had red hair, and my father… he had the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Like yours, but colder. Like staring into ice that’s been filled with sunlight.”

“How’d you come to be in the village?”

“I’m not sure. From what others have told me, I showed up there when I was very young. I don’t recall much of my life before that point.”

“Well sod that place.” She took the bottle back and wrapped an arm around Leisl’s shoulders. “Your home is with us now.”

“I can’t help wondering if this was all part of some greater plan, or if I just lucked into it,” she said, leaning against the other woman as they stumbled through the trees. “But however it happened, I’m glad you came into my life.” She sniffed the air briefly. “You smell really nice.”

“I keep perfume in this bag as well,” said Rosalind. “It helps during those times when you don’t know when your next bath is coming.”

“We’ll be at the lake soon.”

“And we’d catch our deaths skinny dipping in there this time of year,” she said, chuckling. “But maybe the whiskey will keep us warm.”

“Alcohol actually makes you lose heat faster,” Leisl informed her. “It warms the blood near your skin, but that just means it radiates off you more quickly. On cold nights we’d actually keep the fire going until morning so people could sober up without freezing to death.”

“Guess working at a tavern really does teach you a few things. Fire it is, then.”

“Right. You still need to tell me what the deal is with you and hunting lodges.”

“All in good time,” said Rosalind, continuing to lead the way. “All in good time.”

* * *

“It was my father who taught me to shoot,” said Rosalind once the fire was properly crackling as the wood snapped and popped, scattering embers into the night air. The two of them had retrieved a blanket from one of the bags and were currently sharing it, pressing their bodies close together for more reasons than simply staying warm. “Made me practice with a bow every day; even had a private range built. He was grooming me to join the Black Infantry since before I could even walk.”

“Is that where he served?”

“For a time, but after our family came into money he spent most of his days caring for the estate. Took me out hunting too, which is where my disdain for lodges began.”

“Why’s that?”

“The other hunters didn’t take too kindly to me. Our family was new money, you see, and the nobles sent their sons there to earn glory for their families, which meant it was just another ploughing social club. Didn’t matter which one we went to; once they saw who my father was they’d start making my life hell. Stealing my kills, calling me names, beating me black and blue whenever our parents weren’t around… it was awful. But it’s also where I learned to fight as well as I do.”

“They can’t have liked the fact that you were a girl either,” said Leisl. “Did they ever…?”

“They weren’t that savage,” she said. “At any rate, once I joined the army things improved, and I was eventually selected for Onyx Squadron, handpicked by General Voorhis himself. If anyone troubles me these days, I make them pay for it in blood.”

Leisl nestled her head into the crook of the other woman’s neck. “Well I’m glad things got better for you. I know a thing or two about being shunned.”

“The main thing I learned from the whole experience is that if all you care about is fitting in, you’re not really living. Just surviving. You had the courage to be who you wanted to even when the only people you knew were a bunch of small-minded villagers and men who saw you as a _kusse_ with legs.”

“I wanted them to see me like that,” she said, stroking Rosalind’s thigh. “Made it easier to rob them blind.”

“Well I see someone who’s not afraid to go after what she wants. Someone with a well of potential waiting to spring up.”

Leisl shook her head. “I still don’t know what’s happening with me. What _was_ that? How could I be the cause of all that destruction?”

“Have you heard the story of the Elder Blood?”

“Not really.”

“It’s a fascinating tale. Daxyl told it to me once. Hundreds of years ago, the elf Lara Dorren fell in love with a human mage, Cregennan of Lod. Accounts vary, but most versions of the story agree that it ended with Cregennan murdered, and Lara Dorren dying after giving birth on a hill, alone. She cast a curse with her dying breath, and madness has followed the Elder Blood and its descendants ever since.”

“This Cirilla that we’re chasing,” she said. “The witcher girl. She’s one of them?”

“Apparently. The most famous one in recent memory. Her mother supposedly had an episode similar to yours, during a banquet more than twenty years ago in Cintra. A lot of the Elder Blood’s descendants end up destroying themselves and anyone nearby when their powers awaken and they’re unable to control it.”

“There was a woman in the tavern,” said Leisl. “She told me her name was Scheherazade. She’s the one who stopped it, somehow. I don’t think she’s quite human.”

“How do you mean?”

“You didn’t notice that your tongue was a little loose that night? All of ours were. That’s why Viola confessed her feelings for me, and why I tore her apart for it. It’s how I got Maura to spill everything that Caelan was doing to her. I asked Scheherazade about it, and she admitted it was her doing. She must have cast some sort of spell.”

“Honestly I was so taken by you I’d have confessed anything, spell or not,” said Rosalind. “But it makes sense. She was the only one able to even move during all that.”

“She had me make some sort of deal with her. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to entail, but I suspect we’ve not seen the last of her.”

Rosalind ruffled Leisl’s hair, then hugged her close. “I’m sure the others will find this enthralling when we discuss it with them later. But I promised you two bottles of wine and some whiskey. And I always keep my promises.”

They each grabbed one of the bottles in question and clinked them together. “Bottoms up, then.”

* * *

The moon had risen high into the night, and an ocean of stars twinkled behind it. The lake had frozen over entirely, and snow had come to rest atop the ice, blocking the reflection that was usually there. A blanket of moonlight clung tightly to the ground, causing the laketop to dazzle as if scattered with diamonds.

Tossing another few sticks onto the fire, they kept the light alive even under the trees where the moonlight could not penetrate. They sat there quietly for a time, watching the horizon. Further along the shore of the lake, a lone elk wandered through the forest, and they watched it trudge forlornly across the snow until it disappeared from sight.

“You know,” said Leisl, “I think this is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Romantic?” the other woman replied with feigned shock. “Whatever do you mean?”

She chuckled. “I’d have gladly just brought you into the back room of the tavern the night we met. You’re interesting, and you’ve been far nicer to me than I probably deserve. And now you’ve brought me out here, under the trees and the moon and the stars… so peaceful. So beautiful. I can’t imagine you just wanted to pass the time by sitting here.”

A wry grin spread across Rosalind’s face. “See, but you told me you charge for such pleasures. If I’d gone with you then you’d have taken my purse and forgotten about me in the same hour. I wanted to do something worth remembering. Pay you in beauty instead.”

“Can’t say it didn’t work. Gods, you look so pretty in the moonlight.”

Leisl shifted within the blanket, facing the other woman directly and pressing her body tight against her before leaning in and bringing their lips together. The other woman received the kiss, then returned it with increased passion. She pushed forward further, and Rosalind leaned back, the blanket forming a thin layer between them and the snow.

“Sure we should be doing this? Dangers of drinking in the cold and all that.”

“That’s alright,” she said breathlessly, planting kisses along her neck. “I’ll keep you warm.”

They continued making out, and Leisl slid her tongue into Rosalind’s mouth, down her throat, while cupping her right breast. Her hand slid further down, along her ribs and down to her hip. The other woman writhed beneath her, pulling Leisl tight against her. She was so lost in other sensations that it took her more than a minute to notice something hard pressing up against her.

Breaking contact, she stared curiously down at the other woman, moving her hand to the source of the bulge that she felt. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t recoil. Not yet.

“What is it?”

“You have a cock.”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a cock.”

“I thought you knew.”

“Have you been a man this whole time?”

“No. But people mistook me for one most of my life just because I was born looking like one. After a while I decided to stop pretending and be who I really am.”

Leisl shook her head to clear it. “But you have tits as well.”

“Easily acquired, if you can pay someone to perform the right magic. But I like my cock. There’re plenty of beautiful women in the world who have them.”

She continued to stare, trying to wrap her head around the concept. Did it really make a difference? She still looked the same, and Leisl’s feelings for her hadn’t diminished one bit. It just came as a bit of a surprise, but one to which she quickly adjusted.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” she replied, leaning down and kissing her again. “I like your cock too.”

Sitting up, she straddled the other woman and undid her belt, pulling down her trousers. The cock sprung free, and her eyes flared with desire as she descended, gripping it firmly in one hand and slowly engulfing it with her mouth. A moan escaped from Rosalind, and she continued to bob up and down, running her tongue along the underside of the shaft.

“You _are_ good at this.”

She grinned. “Have you had this done to you before?”

“Not like this.”

Encouraged, Leisl moved her other hand lower and slid a finger inside, curling it back in a ‘come hither’ motion, which sent Rosalind’s hips bucking upward, shoving the cock further down her throat, all the way to the end. Leisl held it there as long as she could, then came up for air and began stroking it again.

Their bodies were bursting with enough passion that the cold around them was forgotten altogether. The fire blazed nearby, and Leisl continued to take the cock all the way down her throat, causing her makeup to run a bit. She kept her finger inside the other woman, stimulating her prostate and to enhance the pleasure, bringing her ever closer to climax.

“Okay, stop! Stop!”

“What is it?”

“I want to do you now. Let’s hold off on the sticky bit until later.”

Leisl shrugged. “Fair enough.” She stood, undoing her own trousers and dropping them to the ground. They spread out the blanket a little further, and she sat down with her legs spread outward, while Rosalind got onto all fours and crawled over to her, planting her face firmly between her thighs.

The tongue entered her quickly, and she was already warm and slick down below. Rosalind moved her tongue around in a circle, sucking slowly on the clit, taking her time to methodically eke out every bit of pleasure she could induce in her. Leisl mewled, communicating her desires in a language of grunts and moans.

She wrapped her legs around the other woman’s back, pressing her hands hard against her head as she drew her in further, all while Rosalind’s tongue worked tirelessly to satisfy her. Waves of pleasure assailed her, and she admitted to herself, for perhaps the first time, that this was about more than just sex.

Wriggling free of her grasp, Rosalind brandished two fingers before inserting them down below, then leaned forward to kiss her. The tongue was now in her mouth, and Leisl could taste herself. The other woman’s hand pumped back and forth, and Leisl reached out to grab her cock, stroking it in kind.

She gasped suddenly as she could feel herself about to burst, and she clung tight to the other woman as Rosalind brought her to the edge.

“Stop.”

Rosalind stopped. “Yes?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Flashing a smile, the other woman flipped her around, onto her back. Leisl wrapped her legs around her, drawing her close. She felt the head pressing against her, and released a long, desperate moan as the rest of it slid inside. Rosalind descended upon her mouth again, and began pumping back and forth, entering and leaving her slowly at first, then gradually increasing in speed. Leisl moaned and writhed beneath her, the sounds she made crashing against the other woman’s lips.

She looked up past her shoulder, looking at the stars and the moon and only just now realizing how beautiful they were, caught up in a moment of bliss. Somehow the feeling was different than all the times before; more passionate, more intense. Sex had become so routine for her that it had come to mean almost nothing, but somehow this felt new.

Planting her feet on the ground, Leisl shoved against the other woman, reversing their positions so that she was on top, with Rosalind lying flat on the ground. She began to move her body up and down, thrusting against the cock with renewed vigor. Her hands rested on the other woman’s chest, and Rosalind grabbed Leisl’s hips and thrust upward in time with her movements, until they were in perfect harmony.

A few minutes later, Rosalind’s eyes grew wide, and she started thrusting a bit more slowly. “Here it comes. Get off if you’d rather not have kids.”

Laughing, she leapt up before crashing back down again, taking the cock into her mouth once more. Rosalind motioned for her to turn around, and she moved so that their bodies were pressed against each other, facing in opposite directions. Leisl felt Rosalind’s tongue enter her again, even as she continued to bob up and down against the cock.

They didn’t climax at the same time. Rosalind broke first, releasing hot, sticky fluid into Leisl’s mouth, which she swallowed without hesitation. Her turn came a few minutes later, and Rosalind’s face became wet and sticky as well.

Once the initial high wore off, they both scrambled to put their trousers back on, then curled up in the blanket and held each other close. As the warmth spread through her body, Leisl realized that she had never felt so complete in her life.

“Was that fun? Did you enjoy it?”

She nodded.

“We’d best do it indoors next time, don’t you think? I fear my balls might freeze off.”

Leisl threw her head back and laughed. “Well that would be a damn shame.”

They stared into the fire, letting it fill them with its warmth as the flames danced in the cold, silvery night.

* * *

“So you’ve always been a woman, even though you looked like a man for half your life?”

The fire was still rustling in front of them, and they gazed out over the lake, huddled against each other for warmth.

“I wouldn’t put it in such crude terms, but yes,” said Rosalind. “Most people who learn my history accuse me of being a man pretending to be a woman, but for most of my life the reverse has been true. I learned early on that others saw me a certain way, and attached certain expectations to that. And for the years when that still mattered to me, I put a lot of effort into concealing my true self. Acting the way I was supposed to. But like I said, that’s not living.”

“Just surviving.”

“Sometimes survival is all you can do. I’ve never met any, but I know there are others like me. You hear about them sometimes, from town criers or rumors that spread through villages like wildfires. Half the time the story ends with their murder, and they’re made out to be just as awful as the sort of creatures you call a witcher for. I heard of one who’d lived quietly in the community for years, never bothered anybody, but someone spilled her secret and they burned her at the stake.”

“That’s horrible.”

“If I wasn’t so good at killing I’d probably have met my death by this point. One time in a tavern a man grabbed me down there apropos of nothing, save the fact that he was stupidly drunk. He got this look in his eyes that told me exactly what his next move would be. So I got there first and shoved a dagger up through his chin, into his brain. Couldn’t risk him either attacking me or sharing his discovery with the rest of the tavern. It was the sort of place where me killing him on the spot was safer than the alternative.”

“Was this before or after you met the others?”

“Slightly before. I’d been discharged under my old name and rejoined under my new one, and the official paperwork says I’m my own distant cousin. General Voorhis saw to it personally.”

“Does he know the truth?”

“He’d not have been able to arrange all that if he didn’t. But it didn’t make a difference to him. He saw my talent, and wanted it used properly. That’s why he handpicked all the members of Onyx Squadron. Like I told you before, we don’t really fit into a traditional military structure. We’re special.”

“Well it doesn’t make a difference to me, either.” Leisl leaned in closer, wrapping her arms around the other woman. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know it can’t be easy to trust people with such a secret.”

“Somehow I knew you’d understand. Call it intuition.”

“Should we get back to the others now? It’s nearing midnight. If we’re going to sleep in the woods we should at least put up a tent.”

“Good thing I brought one, then.”

Leisl grinned. “You told them you were planning this, didn’t you?”

A shrug. “I told them we’d not be back until morning. That’s all they really needed to know.”

“Well then let’s make it a night worth remembering,” she replied as she leaned in and kissed her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's not the sex scene you were all expecting, but this is something I've been waiting to reveal for a while. When I came up with the concept of Onyx Squadron, Rosalind was originally a male character. Then I decided the team needed more women, and then like the next frame of a galaxy brain meme I decided to create a transgender character. A lot of these OCs are my way of introducing more diversity into this universe.
> 
> Some of the things Leisl says here don't have the best connotations, but they reflect the attitudes of the society in which this story takes place. As I've mentioned before, characters don't tend to talk in social justice-approved nomenclature. Still, I wanted to be respectful and based a lot of this on what I've learned just listening to trans people (there's a fantastic post I found on tumblr about writing trans characters respectfully). I hope that came across okay.
> 
> Also, for those who can't be bothered to look it up, Elaine Dearme is "Beautiful Night" in Elder Speech. But you could probably figure that out from context.
> 
> A lot of these chapters are going to be smaller, character focused pieces like this one and the one before it. In order for things to matter later on, I have to make you care.
> 
> Tell me what you think!


	34. Know Your Enemy

“So,” said Mistle, pacing in a semi-circle through the snow. “Tell us what you know.”

“Is this really necessary? I mean you no harm.”

“That doesn’t mean you pose no danger. Now talk.”

They had tied the man calling himself Tomen to a tree near the campsite. Mistle, Ciri, and Lambert stood closest, while Stephanos observed from the side. The others had taken various positions around the camp, keeping a lookout for anyone who may have followed him. So far they had spotted nothing.

“I already told you. My men and I were at the same tavern your gang attacked, and things descended into a brawl after a group of miscreants showed up to spring a local miller who’d raped and killed a cunning woman. I don’t remember what happened next except for a horrible shrieking that made blood come out my ears.”

“So what made you decide to warn us? From what you’ve said, you were planning on hunting us all down.”

“Well I hardly stand a chance at doing that all by myself, do I? Besides, there’s a reason I’ve never tried claiming the reward on the Rats before.”

“Which is?”

“Me,” said Stephanos. “We were in the Alba Division together.”

“So who’s after us?” It was Ciri who asked it, half-turned away from him with her arms crossed, glancing sideways at him with disdain. “Surely not a group of dead men.”

He took a deep breath. “They’re called Onyx Squadron. A special forces unit within the Alba Division, under the direct command of General Voorhis. They undertake missions with no official record, no backup, and total deniability if captured by the enemy.”

Lambert scoffed. “Well that doesn’t sound made up at all.”

“It’s not,” Stephanos confirmed. “They were my old unit, before I got cursed. If they’re hunting us, we need to be on our guard. Even with all our strength, they may well devise a way to trap us.”

“I’ve evaded capture from Nilfgaard, the Northern Realms, the sorcerer Vilgefortz, and the Wild Hunt,” said Ciri. “Among countless others. I doubt this group will be any different.”

“You’ve not seen them in action,” he said. “With only five members, they’ve brought down foes that would otherwise require an army to topple.”

“Like what?” asked Lambert, skeptically.

“During the last war, a company of Redanians took shelter in Blackspire Keep, in the mountains of Kaedwen,” said Tomen. “The army was impeded by heavy snows blocking the main pass, and the only other way into the keep was by scaling a sheer cliff made of ice.”

“At that time my curse had already taken hold, so I wasn’t with them,” said Stephanos. “But from what I hear, they scavenged explosives from a mage’s quarters and used them to convince the soldiers inside that there was a much larger assault underway. Then they lowered the drawbridge and let in the rest of the army.”

“Impressive, but hardly cause to be quaking in my boots,” said Ciri. “I’m more interested in this screaming you mentioned. It was the tavern girl, Leisl you said, right?”

He nodded. “She just started screaming, and suddenly no one could move. There was light coming from her, and a strong wind tore the roof clean off. I’ve no idea what happened.”

“I do. But I’m not about to discuss it in front of you.”

“Enough of this,” said Lambert. “What do we do with him?”

“You don’t have to let me go free,” said Tomen. “Keep me as your prisoner if you still don’t trust me. But please don’t leave me in this particular position. I’d be food for the first wolves that come along.”

“Or whatever else lurks in this forest,” said Ciri. “It’s your call, Mistle. But for what it’s worth, I believe him.”

She nodded. “Cut him down, but keep him in bonds for now.” She turned to Stephanos. “I’m sure you understand why someone other than you should be in charge of watching him. Get Horace to do it.”

“Of course.” He set about undoing the ropes, then tied Tomen’s hands together and dragged him off towards one of the tents. Once he was out of earshot Lambert glanced towards Ciri, who nodded in understanding.

“That magic event he described. The screaming, the sudden release of power accompanied by strange light…”

“It’s almost exactly like what happened to me at Kaer Morhen,” she agreed. “As well as what happened to my mother all those years ago, before Geralt and Ermion brought her under control.”

“Come again now?” said Mistle, quirking an eyebrow.

“The girl he talked about is most likely another Source,” Ciri elaborated. “A Child of the Elder Blood, like me. That sort of thing happens to a lot of us, when our powers awaken without proper training. Most times they end up destroying themselves and everything around them.”

“I thought you were all descended from royalty, though,” she said. “Or at least nobility. What was she doing working as a tavern girl?”

Ciri shrugged. “Honestly, most of us are bastards. There’s so much incest in my family tree they had to find my grandmother a husband all the way from this province, which is how his destiny got tangled up with my father’s. Even I was conceived out of wedlock.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a princess.”

“The point is, there’s no way of reliably tracking down all the heirs, not least of which is because it’s passed down the matrilineal line, and every so often it skips a generation. She could have had this power all along and never even known, until it awoke during a time of great stress.”

“Like watching a tavern full of people get slaughtered in front of her.”

She nodded. “If what Tomen says is true, then she’s now travelling with this Onyx Squadron. If they have a Source on their side, even one that’s untrained, that could make them an actual threat.”

Mistle contemplated that for a moment, bobbing her head up and down. “Very well, then. We should let the others know what we’ve learned. Come on.”

The three of them began walking back towards the camp.

* * *

 

“When did Rosalind say they were getting back again?” asked Emelie after she finished draining her third tankard. She slammed it down on the table, and a bit of foam spilled over the lip, stopping just shy of leaking onto the table. “We have to leave in the morning.”

“They’ll be here,” said Amandine, taking a more reserved sip of her ale. “You don’t really have room to talk about running off for romantic escapades.”

The blonde woman shrugged, stroking the arm of the enormous man next to her, who had been drawing stares from the rest of the tavern the whole night. “Fair enough. If nothing else I’ll admit she’s got good taste. That girl is smarter than I gave her credit for.”

“How so?”

“This whole plan to catch the Rats,” she elaborated. “We’d have come to it on our own eventually, but I didn’t expect a tavern girl to be so versed in the ways of snaring bandits.”

“Tavern workers are well acquainted with the work of brigands,” said Daxyl, leaning in and joining the conversation. “This very inn, for example, was where the original Rats sprung one of their number who had been captured, slaughtering a good number on their way out. It’s also where the first reports of an ashen-haired girl with green eyes numbering among them originated.”

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” she said, nodding. “We all know the story. You’re certain she’s traveling with the new version of the gang?”

“The villagers in Dun Dâre confirmed it,” said Amandine. “The girl was trained as a witcher, and was last seen battling the Wild Hunt in Skellige. According to official reports the battle claimed her life, but…”

“But you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the reports.” Another tankard of mead arrived, and she began to drink from that one as well. Thus far she’d only achieved a slight buzz. “That makes things a mite more complicated, but not by much. We’re only supposed to kill the rest of her companions, probably because someone doesn’t like the idea of her living as an outlaw.”

“She won’t make it easy,” said Daxyl. “The power of the Elder Blood is not to be underestimated. Properly mastered, it allows for absolute control over time and space, and even an untrained Source is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then it’s fortunate we have one of our own,” said Amandine. “And there are ways of bringing even that level of power under control.”

They all nodded, muttering in agreement.

“If they’re not back by dawn they get to cover our tab,” said Emelie, raising the fourth tankard in a toast. “Bottoms up.”

* * *

 

When Viola was roused from her slumber by a knock at the door, she became intensely aware of how cold it was, even with a fire going in the hearth. Throwing on her coat, she trekked carefully across the floor and opened the door just a crack, peering out into the night.

Before her stood a figure, clad in elegant robes, wearing a mask that hid her features. Her ears came to a fine point, and her eyes glowed an icy shade of blue, even in the dark. Viola squinted suspiciously. “May I help you?”

“ _Squaess'me_.” Her voice was smoky and resonant, and very definitely elven. “I’m but a humble traveler looking for a place to stay, but I see the inn has burned down. If you’re willing to put me up for the night, I can pay you well.”

Something about this woman caused the hairs on her back to stand on end, but Viola was never one to turn down coin. “Alright. But if you try any funny business I’ll scream and wake the whole village.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Opening the door the rest of the way, Viola motioned the elven woman inside. From here she could see that the staff she carried was ornately carved with elven runes, and her hair was split into three braids that joined together again at the small of her back. The door closed, and soon they were alone with the fire.

“So what do I call you?”

“I go by several names,” she answered. “But Ya’vanasha is the shortest, so you can call me that.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Viola.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She reached into a pouch on her waist, and passed the contents into her hand. “Your coin. I trust it’s enough?”

Viola’s heart skipped a beat as she grew to understand how much gold she’d just been given. “Uh, yeah,” she said quickly. “Yes, that should do. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Not at the moment. But I wouldn’t mind sitting in front of the fire.”

“Of course.” She retrieved a small stool, depositing it next to the hearth. Ya’vanasha sat down and began staring into the flames, then breathed in deeply as she concentrated. “Anything else? Some company, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

Viola grabbed another stool and sat down next to her. The elf continued breathing in and out, and her frosty blue eyes sparkled as they reflected the flames. Finally she spoke.

“I must confess, I’m curious what happened to the tavern.”

“So am I. Apparently there was a brawl there that turned into a massacre, and then some sort of magic cataclysm happened that tore the whole roof off the place. I’d already left earlier that evening, so I wasn’t there for it, but the girl responsible left the village right after.”

“A girl, you say?”

“Leisl. She’s about my age. We used to be friends, but then we grew apart. I embarrassed myself rather spectacularly in front of her that night. Didn’t know it would be the last time I saw her.”

“Describe her to me.”

“Brown hair, green eyes, medium height, thin as a rail. But more than any of that she’s a massive whore. She’d fuck anybody just to take their gold. Don’t know why I was ever friends with her, to be honest.”

“Was she born in the village?”

Viola shook her head. “No. She just showed up one day when she was young, and a few old maids took turns raising her. She was on her own around the time she turned sixteen. No one knows who her real family is. I asked her once and she said she couldn’t remember anything about her life before.”

“Did she ever strike you as having any magical talent?”

“Other than a knack for separating a man from his purse by way of his trousers, no. I’m not even sure it _was_ her. That’s just what Maura told me.”

She looked away from the fire, towards Viola. “Maura?”

“She was still in there when everything happened,” she revealed. “Apparently her husband had been beating her ever since she went to see the cut-wife. Caelan, his name was. He and the rest of his gang raped the cunning woman and hanged her after she killed Maura’s baby. At any rate, Caelan wound up dead in the tavern after a fight broke out, and then Leisl started screaming so loud nobody could move. That’s when all the magic started happening.”

“Interesting.” She turned her gaze back to the flames.

“You like fire or something?”

“Hm?”

“It’s just you keep staring at it.”

“I’m drawing the Power from it,” Ya’vanasha explained. “It’s the most efficient way of recharging my energy.”

“Drawing power? You mean like magic?”

She nodded. “The Power runs through everything in nature. It underlies existence itself. Magic is merely the process of drawing on this energy and using it to manipulate reality. Not everyone can do it, of course, and drawing from fire can be dangerous. You must be careful not to burn.”

“How was Leisl doing it, then? I don’t think even she knew she had that power.”

“Occasionally someone is born who has a deeper connection to the Power, beyond even the strongest of mages,” said Ya’vanasha. “We call them Sources. It is the power of _Hen Ichaer_ , the Elder Blood. The seed which does not sprout but bursts into flame. But even with the proper training, it’s difficult to control.”

Viola craned her head back. “How do you know so much about it?”

“I’m a student of history. The Elder Blood began with the elves, you know.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

“All you really need to know is that this girl is a danger, to herself and others. If left untamed, this power could consume everything in its path.”

She squinted at her. “You’re not just here to stop for the night, are you?”

“You’re a perceptive one. I’ve been pursuing rumors of this girl for some time. Word of what happened that night has already spread to other parts of the Empire. Your information has proven most valuable.”

“What will you do with her? When you catch up to her, I mean?”

“That depends on her.”

She frowned, then stood. “Well, I’m going back to sleep. The bed’s big enough for two, or there are some bedrolls in the closet. Good night.”

Ya’vanasha continued staring at the fire. “Good night.”

* * *

 

A twig snapped in the forest, and Leisl rocketed awake, glancing quickly around her as her breath formed little clouds in front of her face. The woman beside her roused as well, and fixed her with an inquisitive look.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“I think something might be out there. I heard a twig snap.”

Rosalind chuckled briefly and smiled, retrieving her bow and a couple of arrows from her pack. She undid the flap on the tent, and peeked her head outside. The moon was still perched above them, illuminating the snow. She ventured further out of the tent, keeping an arrow nocked as she scanned around.

She heard movement in the branches above her, and whirled around, tugging back on the bowstring as she pointed it in the direction of the noise. But she saw nothing.

Leaving the tent as well, Leisl joined her, scanning around the forest for anything unusual. The moonlight wasn’t sufficient to see more than a few meters into the darkness, and the two of them were unable to locate the source of the movement.

“CAW!”

They jumped, and Rosalind loosed an arrow in the direction of the sound. It barely missed a raven, which flew over to another branch, staring curiously down at them and tilting its head to one side.

“Well,” said Rosalind, chuckling breathlessly. “That solves that mystery.”

“ _Bloede pest_ ,” Leisl swore in Nilfgaardian. “I was certain I heard something larger.”

“Go back to sleep,” she told her. “I’ll stay out here a while longer and make sure it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? I can keep you company.”

“I’ll be fine. Good night, Leisl.”

“Good night.” She moved back inside the tent, and Rosalind stayed outside for few minutes longer before, satisfied that nothing was there, she went back to sleep as well.

* * *

 

“Alone at last,” said Ciri as she and Mistle retreated into their tent for the night. “Don’t get me wrong, I like having so many allies, but if we need to make space in our camp for one more person I might just run for the hills.”

Chuckling, Mistle wrapped an arm around her. “Well for tonight, you have me all to yourself.”

“A true miracle.”

“Earlier you wanted to say something to me,” she said. “What was it?”

“Oh. It’s…” Blood rushed into her cheeks, and she glanced away. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

A sly grin creeped across Mistle’s face. “This is about me being a vampire isn’t it?”

“What gave you that impression?”

“You couldn’t wait to kiss me with blood all over my mouth. You said it was hot.”

Ciri’s face grew redder, but she mustered the courage to look at her. “Sorry. It’s something I’ve always been slightly embarrassed by. I’m not sure where it started, but I think it was some of the forbidden literature that Yennefer used to carry around when I studied under her.”

“Really?”

“Hey, these weren’t trashy two crown romance novels written for some quick coin. Someone put a lot of thought into them.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. Vampires in stories aren’t presented like other monsters. They’re mysterious, intriguing, and they represent some form of deviancy. All terribly interesting things to a girl who never had the luxury of a normal childhood.”

“But you learned about real vampires when you studied to be a witcher, didn’t you?”

“Well yes, but it was fun to fantasize. The vampires in those stories were stand-ins for social outsiders; creatures who could walk among polite society, who could take what they wanted, live as they pleased, but who were trapped by the act they had to maintain. You can see how I grew to identify with them.”

“Of course. But how did that translate into…?”

“Oh. There’s a reason the books were forbidden.”

“Which is?”

“They were dirty in the extreme. I think that’s why Yennefer liked them.”

“Does she know you read them?”

Ciri grinned. “She caught me with them once or twice. But she didn’t take them away; just told me there’s more to life than stories.”

“Shows what she knows.”

“How did it feel? Bringing down that deer with nothing but your own strength and fangs?”

“Exhilarating,” Mistle replied. “I never knew the hunt could give me such a thrill. I’ve never felt more alive.”

“And Syanna let you drink her blood before that?”

She nodded.

“How did it taste?”

“Nice enough.” Mistle shifted in place, facing her so they were inches apart. “I’m curious to know how you taste, though.”

“Well then.” She tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck. “No time like the present. Just don’t, you know…”

“Kill you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Grinning, Mistle descended slowly and wrapped her mouth around Ciri’s neck, piercing it gently with a pair of long fangs that grew more pronounced as the smell of her blood became ever sweeter. Ciri winced softly as they broke the skin, but it transmuted into a moan as Mistle’s hands began exploring the rest of her body, cupping one of her breasts with one and rubbing up and down her back with the other.

As she drew blood from the wound, a wave of intense, heady pleasure stampeded through Mistle’s body, overpowering her senses and causing her to crave _more_. Even the pleasant taste of Syanna’s blood earlier was nothing compared to this. Withdrawing her mouth from the wound, she planted her lips over Ciri’s, and shoved her blood-covered tongue down her throat.

A sudden strength filled her, and Mistle’s eyes began to glow a bright shade of green, matching the woman in front of her. Neither of them noticed it, as they were too busy disrobing and rubbing their hands all over each other with heedless abandon. The cold outside had ceased to matter, and both of them were filled with raw heat that overcame all other sensation.

Separating for a moment, Mistle breathed heavily and smiled at her lover, who lay naked beneath her, grinning back at her just as excitedly. “Your blood _is_ special.”

“Told you.”

“You’re really okay with this? Right now I feel like I could literally eat you up.”

“But you won’t. You love me, remember?”

Grinning stupidly, Mistle laughed out loud.

“Besides, you’ve always taken what you wanted before. Why should this be any different?”

“Because,” she said, breathlessly. “I don’t want things to be quite as one-sided as they were before. I’m still afraid you’ll tell me you’ve only been pretending to love me because we’re stuck together thanks to my deal with O’Dimm.”

“I told you I loved you more than five years ago, the last time I saw you before all this happened. That hasn’t changed. I’ve offered myself up to you because I trust you. Completely.  It doesn’t matter what happened before. Only what happens now, and what happens next.”

“And what’s that?”

“Right now? You stop ruining the mood and keep fucking me.”

Descending once more, Mistle shoved two fingers inside Ciri and began sucking on the other woman’s breast, piercing it with her fangs as well in the excitement. Ciri yelped, but gave her an encouraging nod when their eyes met, which she took as a signal to keep going. Her elbow jerked back and forth as she moved the fingers inside her, and she rose to her knees, rubbing Ciri’s clit with her other hand.

For her part, Ciri had begun to buck her hips up and down in time with the thrusting, and wrapped her legs around Mistle’s back. Grabbing her by the back of the head, she pulled her down to the space between her thighs, and Mistle replaced her fingers with her tongue.

“No biting down there,” she commanded, and Mistle obeyed, licking her vigorously as Ciri pressed her head deeper into her crotch. “Guuuuhhh!”

This continued for the next minute or so as Mistle, filled with energy as never before, alternated between licking, sucking, and fingering Ciri with enough intensity to bring her to climax. Ciri clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from shrieking in ecstasy. Finally she drew back, and Ciri stared at her hungrily.

“I have an idea,” she said, and Mistle stared at her curiously. “Do you trust me?”

She nodded. “Like no one else.”

Grabbing her by the hand, Ciri closed her eyes, and the two of them vanished in a flash of green light.

* * *

When reality asserted itself around them again, Mistle could see the walls of a castle surrounding them, with a large, empty fireplace in the middle of a circular room atop a large tower that looked out over the mountains below. The rest of the castle was very nearly a ruin, and she could see the scars of some sort of conflict in the courtyard below.

“Where are we?”

Smiling, breathless, and completely nude, Ciri gestured with her arms held out to either side. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Here we can be as loud as we want, and no one will hear us. There’s only wilderness for miles around.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.” Grabbing a tinderbox from nearby, Ciri ignited the dead wood in the fireplace, then retrieved some furs, beckoning for Mistle to join her. “Now it’s my turn to please you.”

She was still bleeding from her neck and her left breast, but not in a way that threatened her life or even her comfort. She seemed exhilarated by what had transpired so far, and Mistle was all to happy to comply with her request, sidling over and letting the other woman tackle her down onto the furs.

Straddling Mistle across her waist, Ciri ground her hips against her, then leaned down and brought their lips together. Flipping the other woman over so that Mistle was lying on her stomach, Ciri moved back a little further and planted her face between her arse cheeks, sliding her tongue inside. Mistle rose to all fours, and Ciri continued to pleasure her, alternating between her tongue and fingers while Mistle helped out by rubbing her own clit.

The energy provided by the Elder Blood was still throbbing inside her, and Mistle turned around hungrily, bringing their lips together again as they rolled around on the furs. She bit down hard on Ciri’s lip, and the other woman screamed into her mouth, but continued to kiss her. They brought their hips together and started to grind against each other, and Mistle’s attention moved once more to the wound on Ciri’s neck, drawing more blood from her lover.

The blood had smeared across both of them by this point, and each of them had inserted their fingers inside the other, working in tandem to bring each other to climax. Shoving Mistle down onto her back, Ciri turned around and sat on her face, then leaned down and lavished attention on her as well.

Their tongues danced inside each other, and for a few brief minutes both of them were able to forget the utter insanity that their lives had become. They were more than just flesh and blood; they were twin flames, burning ever brighter, blinding each other to the world around them even as they revealed an entire galaxy of untold passion.

Mistle’s nails were more accurately claws by this point, and they raked across Ciri’s flesh, cutting just barely skin deep. Ciri hissed, but didn’t tell her to stop, and pushed vigorously forward in her own endeavors, rubbing hard against Mistle’s clit until finally she brought the other woman to orgasm.

Shrieking with wild abandon, Mistle bucked her hips upward into Ciri’s waiting mouth, where the hot, sticky cum splashed against her face. Grabbing her with preternatural strength, Mistle stood, holding Ciri upside down as they continued to pleasure each other, digging her claws into her back.

After a minute or so, Ciri came again, and Mistle received it just as enthusiastically as the blood. When it was over, they lay naked on the furs, staring out the open doors at the valley below.

“You’re bleeding all over,” said Mistle, running a hand over the freshly opened cuts.

“And whose fault is that? Besides, I’m a witcher; I’m used to scars.”

“We should clean them at least,” she said. “Make sure they don’t get infected.”

“In a bit. For now let’s just sit here.”

Mistle nodded. “So this is where you trained, then?”

“Yes. After Cintra fell, I was reunited with Geralt and he brought me here. He’d never really planned on collecting me even though he invoked the Law of Surprise at my mother’s banquet, all those years ago. He had no idea what to do with a child, especially a girl. So he did the same thing he’d have done with a boy, and had me trained as a witcher.”

“I still don’t quite understand how that works,” she replied. “Do you really believe in destiny? That everything we experience was preordained from the very start?”

Ciri shook her head. “The very concept of the Law of Surprise goes against that idea of destiny. It implies it’s possible to change the outcome of one’s future. But it also means that my destiny became intertwined with Geralt’s the same way he tied his fate to Yennefer’s. I don’t think anything is really meant to be. But it’s possible to tell the future, if you can look at time from a different perspective.”

“Like Gaunter O’Dimm does?”

“Precisely. The most he or others like him can control are our circumstances, not our actions. We still make choices that affect the course of our destiny. But most people can’t see past the next bend in the river, much less imagine the ocean. The Elder Blood lets me see beyond that, but I still haven’t figured out how to control it.”

“You will. And if it is possible to change the future, perhaps there’s a chance this will all have a happy ending. Or at least not a completely hopeless one.”

“I hope you’re right.” She sighed. “Shall I teleport us back now?”

“In a bit,” said Mistle. “I’d like to stay in this moment a little longer.”

Ciri flashed her a soft smile. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to tie a lot of plot threads together that happened like twenty chapters ago, so I hope you'll forgive me recapping a few events, sometimes from multiple perspectives. None of them are objective and a few are missing crucial facts, which is similar to how Sapkowski built the narrative for the original novels: as a collection of various in-universe accounts. I'm not going that far with it, but it helps to take a birds-eye view of things sometimes.
> 
> It's taken 11 months, but we finally have another Ciri/Mistle sex scene. I hope it was worth the wait. The main thing I wanted to bring across was that, regardless of how things started between them, their relationship has developed to the point where they trust each other, and that trust is explicit rather than implicit. When drinking another person's blood, it's important for consent to be given.
> 
> We're two updates away from the one year anniversary of me publishing this thing, which is the longest I've ever continuously worked on a story. Your feedback makes it all worth it.


	35. Bushwhacked

A raven at sunrise was a curious sight, yet it was still the one that greeted Leisl as she emerged from the tent to witness the dawn. It was perched atop a neighboring tree, tilting its head from side to side and occasionally deigning to glance in her direction. What had seemed so ominous in yesterday’s moonlight was now strangely mundane.

The chill left over from the night before was slowly thawing with the rising sun, though her breath still formed clouds that dissipated in the morning air. The raven flapped its wings a bit and moved further down the branch, and she stared at it curiously.

The snow crunched behind her, and turned to see Rosalind shuffling over to the lake, where she slid open her trousers and began to piss directly onto the frozen surface.

“Really?”

Rosalind glanced over her shoulder, raising a curious eyebrow while the ground beneath her grew steadily more yellow. “What?”

“I might not be a proper lady, but couldn’t you have gone behind a tree or something? You’re sucking all the romance out of the moment.”

A broad smile flashed across her face as she finished, then refastened her trousers and bowed with a  grand flourish. “My apologies. I’m just so used to concealing myself around folk that I like to cut loose out in the wilderness. And now you’re in on the secret, so…”

“I know, it’s just… that was inside me last night.”

She laughed, moving back towards her before clapping her on the shoulder. “It shan’t happen again.”

Leisl rolled her eyes, then leaned forward to kiss her. “Should we head back now?”

“In a bit. Thought I’d hunt us some breakfast first.” She re-entered the tent, and emerged carrying her bow, a quiver of arrows slung across her back. In the morning sunlight, she looked positively majestic. Leisl bit her lip as a frisson of energy lanced down her spine.

“What?”

“Somehow you’ve managed to put the romance back in,” she said, blushing. “But don’t let me keep you. Last night rather famished me, so I could do with some fresh meat right about now.”

She grinned crookedly. “Then I shall be back as soon as I can.”

Leisl watched her until she vanished into the forest, then set about rekindling the fire. Within a minute or so she had it going.

“So this is my life now,” she muttered, chuckling softly as she watched the raven, which kept silent vigil over her as well.

All things considered, she rather liked how things had turned out. It wasn’t until she’d left the village that she realized how unhappy her life had been there. The sex was great, but she’d never had any real friends or long term relationships, only people who saw her as a means to an end. But this odd, blue-eyed marvel of a woman displayed a genuine interest in her that she’d never experienced from anybody.

If only she could divorce it from all the insanity that came with finding out her body contained a power she never even knew she had. She still wasn’t completely sure that this wasn’t all some strange dream. But if it was, she wasn’t in as much of a hurry to wake up.

The raven cawed, and she jumped slightly, turning her head towards the sound. Standing beneath the tree, she saw an older man with gray hair, dressed simply in a frock with a bag slung over his shoulder, whose eyes contained a bit of red, but didn’t look too threatening.

“Who are you?”

“My apologies,” the stranger said. “I’m merely passing through. This forest doesn’t get many visitors.”

She relaxed somewhat, but kept her eyes trained on the man. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Of course. You may call me Regis. Are you out here alone?”

“For the moment.”

“Not something I’d recommend in a place like this. Many dangerous things enjoy hiding in woods like these.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If this is your way of offering to keep me company…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Though I have been tasked with keeping you safe.”

Squinting, Leisl reared back. “Safe from what? And by whom?”

He broke his gaze with her and looked to the side, and her eyes followed. “For the moment? From them.”

There were ten of them, all dressed in armor and dark furs, carrying swords and bows. The apparent leader of the group stepped forward, rubbing the snow out of his ridiculously large black moustache and leered at her.

“Well, well,” he began. “Here we are hunting deer, and we come across beaver instead. It’s our lucky day.”

Leisl shrunk back, feeling rather like she’d attracted the attention of a pack of wolves who’d marked her as their next meal. The man calling himself Regis stepped forward, his hand clutching the strap of his bag, interposing himself between her and the gang.

“I would advise against this course of action, sir. There’s plenty of game in the forest that you could set your sights on.”

A sneer curled across the leader’s face. “Don’t mistake me for some boor. I know who this girl is. She caused quite a commotion back in Unicorn, and the Imperials are offering a substantial reward for any information regarding that incident. Though last I heard she was travelling with a larger group.”

“And who might you be?”

“I could ask the same of you. My name is Matthias. Me and the Silver Crows here answer to no one except ourselves.”

“The Silver Crows?” Regis placed a hand to his chin. “Last I came across that name, it was on a wanted poster.”

“We’re not common brigands,” said Matthias. “I have friends in high places, you see. Me and the boys here are going to have a good time with this lass, and then we’ll trade her for our reward. You can either piss off or lose your head. Your choice.”

Regis looked past him, to the treeline. “It’s really your own head you should worry about. The girl didn’t come here alone.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

One of the men behind him cried out and hit the ground, an arrow protruding from his skull. They stood there in shock for a moment before spreading out, taking positions around the camp. Regis moved swifter than Leisl thought possible, dashing towards her and pulling her to safety behind a tree, where the raven was still perched. He stood ready to intercept any who might come their way, but they had other problems at the moment.

Another man went down, an arrow striking him square in the chest. The snow kicked up as the next man fell, and only then did they manage to start firing back, aiming a volley in the vague direction of the treeline. As they readied their next arrows, a fourth man was shot right between the eyes and fell backwards onto the snow.

“Find them!” Matthias hollered, panic beginning to show on his face. The men fired another volley, taking cover behind various rocks and trees. For a minute or so, nobody fired in return, and they all relaxed somewhat. Leisl found herself imagining the worst.

“Don’t worry,” Regis whispered to her. “She’s not done yet.”

“SHOW YOURSELF!” the leader of the Silver Crows bellowed, drawing back an arrow and firing it wildly into the forest. “I know you’re out there!”

Another of the men went down behind him, but this time it was from a dagger to the throat. They spun around and saw Rosalind already drawing her bow, using the body of her victim as a shield. Another man got hit in the chest, and she surged forward, dropping the body before rolling under the clumsily fired return volley. In less than two minutes, ten had become four, and Matthias’ bravado had vanished entirely.

Leaping into the air, Rosalind kicked off of one man’s back, spinning around in a half circle and shooting another square in the throat before her feet even touched the ground. She continued to spin as she landed, slashing out the other man’s throat with her dagger. The final man other than Matthias drew his sword and rushed her, but the dagger hurtled forth from her hand and split his forehead before he even got close.

Alone, panicked, and out in the open, Matthias pointed an arrow in her direction, and she did the same. They circled each other for a few moments, sizing each other up.

“For a man who’s wanted in three provinces, I honestly thought you’d put up a better fight,” said Rosalind, smirking. “Who put you up to this?”

“I’m not telling you shit,” he spat. “You and your whore can rot in hell for all I care.”

He released the arrow, but she was faster, rolling to the side before burying one of her own deep in his sternum. He fell to his knees, but was still breathing, for the moment. “How about now?”

“ _Thu caen me a'baeth aep arse_.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” said Regis, walking casually over to the defeated man. He knelt down, staring directly into his eyes. Matthias’ features grew slack, and he stared blankly forward. “Now then. Who really sent you?”

“Houvenaghel,” he answered. “Man in the tavern, Caelan, he worked for him, along with the blokes who tried to rescue him.” He nodded towards Rosalind. “But this one put an arrow in his chest.”

“And now I’ve done the same to you,” she said. “As I will to anyone who comes after us.”

“Isn’t Houvenaghel the one we’re on our way to meet?” asked Leisl. “If he’s sending killers after us…”

Rosalind shrugged. “It complicates things, I’ll give you that. But before we discuss this any further…” She nocked another arrow, then shot it through the man’s head from point blank range. “There. Now then.” She turned to Regis. “Who the hell are you?”

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he answered as he stood. “Regis for short. As I was explaining, I’ve been tasked with this young lady’s protection. Though you seem to have that covered.”

“Tasked by whom?”

“A mutual friend,” he replied, turning to Leisl. “You remember the Storyteller, Scheherazade?”

Leisl nodded.

“Let’s just say she’s protecting her investment.”

She wrapped a palm around her forehead and began to pace. “I’ll be sure to send her my thanks. How long have you been watching us?”

“I only arrived here this morning,” he answered. “But the ravens have been keeping track of you for me. Useful little creatures.”

They both looked at him strangely, but he only smirked in response.

“At any rate, I shall let you two return to your morning. But should you need me, I’ll be standing by.”

“Thanks,” she said hesitantly as he walked away, disappearing into the trees. The raven took off and followed after him. As soon as he was gone, she surged forward and embraced Rosalind. “You were amazing! I’ve never seen anything like that!”

She smiled. “It was nothing. I wasn’t about to let them harm you.” She frowned. “Never did get around to killing us anything we can eat, though.”

“Let’s just head back,” said Leisl. “I’ve had enough of the woods for one day.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

* * *

“So this is where you trained, then?”

They had spent the night in the highest tower of Kaer Morhen, and Ciri had scavenged some of Geralt’s old clothes from a few of the rooms. They hung off of her like loose skin, but Mistle fared slightly better, as her body was slightly larger than hers. They were currently walking through the courtyard, where the scars from the battle with the Wild Hunt had yet to heal.

“After I’d reunited with Geralt, yes. Eskel and Lambert helped train me too. There was another witcher, Coën, but… well, he died in one of the wars. Everything I learned here ended up saving my life years down the line.” She gestured to the pendulum. “That, for example. It’s designed to teach a young witcher that there are some things no one can block, like a griffin’s talons or a fiend’s claws. But you can use the force behind them to power your own strikes, and turn your enemy’s strength against them.”

She nodded. “That does sound helpful.”

“It’s how I defeated Bonhart. The whole idea behind the training here was to make my responses automatic enough that it almost felt like they were performing themselves. But all that really meant was that I wasn’t actually in control. It’s only recently that I’ve learned to move beyond that.”

“What about your powers? How long did it take you to control those?”

“I still haven’t mastered them. But they were only just starting to emerge when I was training here all those years ago. It’s why the witchers invited Triss to stay here. She identified me as a Source, before any of us really knew what that meant. I’d been slipping into trances and making prophecies that ended up coming true years down the line.”

“Like what happened in Geralt’s wine cellar?”

Ciri nodded. “That time I did it on purpose, but Triss said she made contact with that same entity back when I was still training here. It’s what gave me the idea.”

“What do you suppose it really is?”

“I’m not sure, but I know it’s related to Gaunter O’Dimm somehow. And I’ve started hearing it in my dreams. That’s what my nightmare was about the other day.”

As they continued moving further through the courtyard, through the gate leading to the stables, Mistle wrapped an arm around her and drew her close. “Well whoever it is, they’re not going to take you away from me. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. We’ll get through this. Together.”

“I hope so.” They stopped by the stables, and Ciri took one last wistful look up at Kaer Morhen. “Shall we head back now?”

Mistle nodded. “I’m ready to go if you are.”

Closing her eyes, she envisioned the campsite, and they disappeared in a flash of green light…

…then reappeared in the middle of a flaming brawl.

A whirlwind of chaos and movement surrounded them, the fires blanketing the area with a thick miasma of smoke that made it difficult to see much beyond the vague outlines of men with blades. An armored figure on a black horse rode towards them, surprised only briefly by their sudden appearance, leaning over and swinging a sword directly towards them.

An arrow knocked him off the saddle, and they turned to see Horace nocking another arrow before firing off into the smoke. At this distance, it was difficult to tell friend from foe. Ciri scooped the knight’s sword off the ground, while Mistle scanned around, trying to get a sense of their situation.

Another marauder appeared, and from this distance Ciri could see that his armor looked Nilfgaardian, but scavenged and painted with streaks of bright red. He charged towards her with sword held high, and she parried his first swipe before running the sword through his gut. A gout of blood spewed from his mouth, and she pirouetted around him, withdrawing the blade and letting him collapse to the ground.

Three more came after her, and she focused for a moment, disappearing just as their swords passed through the space she’d occupied only moments before. She reappeared behind them, blinking in and out of existence just long enough to skewer each of them in increasingly painful ways. They fell, dead, and Mistle breathed in deeply, savoring the blood.

“Let’s find the others,” said Ciri. “Try not to get too carried away.”

Mistle flashed a toothy grin before a sword ran through her from behind, which only deepened her bloodlust. Turning around slowly, she grabbed her assailant by the shoulders and brought him close, impaling him on the blade. She then sunk her fangs into his neck, draining the strength from his dying body before pushing him away. Ciri helpfully withdrew the sword from her back, then kissed her on the lips.

“For luck.”

They set off in the direction of their tent, where Ciri’s sword awaited them. Another gang of brutes stood in their way, but they made short work of them, carving through one after the other before they could even react. Mistle’s fingers shifted into long claws that sliced through them like razors, spilling gore along the snow and painting the ground red. Ciri struck more precisely, sliding among them like quicksilver. The sword she held was adequate, but kept her from unleashing her true potential.

A wall of fire surged by them, and they saw Resilda and Keira engaged with another group of six. The flames began to shift, morphing into the shape of a dragon’s head that consumed three men who stood in a line. Another was run through by a bolt of lightning summoned from Keira’s hands. Electricity crackled around her form, and soon the attackers learned to give the mages a wide berth.

“What happened?” shouted Mistle. “Where did they all come from?”

“No idea!” Keira shouted. “But there’s a lot of them!”

“The Red Razors are one of the largest _hanses_ in the region,” Mistle explained. “From what I hear they number over a hundred souls.”

Ciri grinned. “Not after we’re done with them.”

They pressed on, trusting that their magic users could look after themselves. Another knight charged towards them on horseback, but was tackled by a large, dark shape covered in thick fur that slammed him into the ground and tore out his throat. More of the marauders surrounded Stephanos, but their blades hardly scratched him as he tore through them like they were made of paper. A tree finally succumbed to the flames and toppled over, separating them from the fray. As if they had anything to worry about.

The deeper into the camp they got, the thicker the enemy grew, but they still carved a path through them with relative ease. Ciri had surrounded the sword with magic flames, and while it was a finely crafted blade, it wouldn’t hold up to that kind of stress for much longer. Mistle had been driven into a frenzy, and was ripping the enemy apart limb from limb. Ciri wasn’t sure how much longer it would be before she lacked the capacity to discern what constituted an enemy. For now, she seemed to be keeping a lid on it.

They found Lambert fending off seven men at once, cutting through them without the barest hint of mercy. His form was impeccable, without a single wasted movement. Forming the sign of Aard, he blasted four of them away, over to where Sheana and Faloanthír were busy dealing with more of them.

Ciri and Mistle dove into the fray, making short work of the ones on the ground before moving on to tougher prey. A particularly large man wielded a glaive, a long polearm with an axe head on the end. Sheana and Faloanthír were trying to get close, but couldn’t make it through his guard. Ciri solved that problem by teleporting behind him and jamming the blade into his back just before the magic overload caused the metal to splinter and explode, filling his insides with shrapnel and bringing him to the ground.

Sheana was distracted by the sight long enough for a blade to slice across her midsection, deeper than a shallow graze but not enough to incapacitate her. A gauntleted fist backhanded her across the cheek, and a kick to the stomach caused her to lurch back, doubling over in pain. The man raised his sword for the killing blow, but Lambert got there first, separating the man’s head from his shoulders.

The raider that he had been engaging tried to exploit the opening, but Lambert was much too fast, and blocked the strike without even breaking the natural flow that accompanied his style. Two more descended on him, and he parried their blows with practiced ease. Sheana used this opportunity to move around them and  slide her sword in between one of the men’s ribs, while Faloanthír stabbed another in the throat.

The final man charged forward, but Lambert slammed their blades together, bringing his opponent’s sword down while he spun to the side, keeping the swords locked and carrying the momentum through until the other man’s sword flew out of his grasp, and Lambert had his arm held behind his back. Tugging on the captive arm, he caused the man to flip and land hard on his back before bringing his sword down into his chest, where he breathed his last.

By this point Mistle’s bloodlust had become nearly all-consuming, and she ran off in search of new targets to kill. Lambert looked after her, concerned.

“Some girlfriend you’ve got.”

“Save it,” said Ciri. “Have you seen my sword?”

“Still in your tent, I think. Where the hell have you been?” He squinted. “Is that one of Geralt’s shirts?”

“Long story. Where are they all coming from?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Let’s go.”

They made it to the tent without further incident, and Ciri retrieved her witcher’s blade. She drew it from the sheath, and a sound like thunder boomed around them as she surrounded herself with green flames. Then they set off in search of stragglers.

By this point a large portion of the attackers had started to run, stopped dead by a vampire that didn’t let them get more than a few dozen yards. Collectively they started to realize that they had bitten off far more than they could chew.

“How’d all this start, anyway?” Ciri asked as they ran.

“They tried ambushing us in our sleep,” he revealed, and she noticed that he didn’t have all of his armor on. “Didn’t have a damn clue what they were walking into.”

“Where’s Syanna? Has anyone seen her?”

They all shook their heads.

“Well that’s fantastic.”

Thirty or so of the attackers remained, scattered throughout different parts of the camp. They split up to engage them, and Ciri headed straight to where the fighting was thickest. The magic surrounding her blade made their armor about as useful as tissue paper, and she relished being able to unleash her full strength. Three of them were dead before they even realized what was upon them, and the rest of them scattered.

A lucky blow got through, and Ciri rolled along the ground while a heavily armored marauder raised a large mace over his head. Mistle whizzed by him, and he split into several smaller pieces that slawed off of him and fell onto the snow. Regaining her footing, she elbowed the man behind her in the face before spinning around and cutting off his legs at the knees. As he fell to the ground shrieking in agony, she buried her blade in his throat, silencing him for good.

Though clearly outclassed, the raiders did still outnumber them, and the Rats were pushed closer together, banding together in a circle and shredding anything that got too close.

To her right, Resilda summoned a torrent of flames, which Keira helped shape with an incantation, blasting through ten of their assailants and charring them to a crisp. Stephanos continued biting, clawing, and tearing his way through the enemy, while Mistle had succumbed to her basest instincts, cutting them apart three at a time. Ciri and Lambert carved through the rest, while Horace, Sheana, and Faloanthír picked up the stragglers.

The last of them went down as Mistle leaped onto him and drained the blood from his neck, while all the rest of them looked on with expressions ranging from horror to mild concern. She turned around to face them, and it was only then that Ciri noticed her features had transmuted into something bestial. Lambert’s hand tightened on his sword, and a moment of silent tension passed between them as all of them waited for someone to make the first move.

It was then that Syanna appeared.

She was dragging someone by the collar, the man who had introduced himself as Tomen the night before. He was beaten and bloodied, though Syanna herself seemed strangely untouched. She dumped him at their feet.

“Caught him trying to run.”

Mistle looked at him hungrily, but Syanna stepped in front of her, staring at her with absolute serenity.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Lambert. “Get out of there!”

She ignored him.

“You are not your instincts,” she said, continuing to stare her down. “Let it fade. You’re stronger than this.”

A few moments later, Mistle began to breathe deeply, and her form shifted back into its usual shape. When she collapsed, Ciri was there to catch her.

“Now then,” said Syanna, staring down at Tomen. “You have some explaining to do.”

“I swear it wasn’t me,” he insisted, rising to his knees and holding up his hands.

“Then how did you get past them? Your hands were tied up and you were unarmed. It seems unlikely they’d just let you through, unless you were the one who told them where we were.”

“I was just lucky! I’m telling you the truth!”

Syanna shrugged. “I’ll leave that for them to decide.”

“Tie him up again,” said Ciri, breathless, supporting Mistle, whose arm was draped over her shoulder. “We’ll decide what to do with him later.”

They performed the task as ordered, and set about finding somewhere else to camp.

* * *

By the time Viola woke, the mysterious elven woman who’d paid her a ridiculous sum to spend the night was already up, still tending to the fire. She stared at her, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Did you even sleep?”

Ya’vanasha nodded. “I don’t require much of it. It was really more about getting out of the cold. That and the information you gave me.”

“If I might be so bold,” she began, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe leading to her bedroom, her robe starting to slide off her shoulders, “why are you so interested in Leisl anyway? I mean I understand what you told me about her powers being dangerous, but I’d take that as a signal to stay far away from her.”

“A pity. I was going to ask if you’d like to help me find her.”

She reared her head back. “What?”

“I’m a stranger in this land. I’m in need of a guide, someone who knows the area and its people. There would of course be more coin in it for you, along with the promise of adventure.”

She considered it for a moment before shaking her head. “The coin you gave me is plenty. And I’m not really the adventuring type.”

“Suit yourself. I should be on my way.”

“I’ll see you out.”

As they walked to the door, the sound of screaming and general commotion reached their ears, and Viola groaned. “Oh, not again.”

The door opened, and her worst fears were realized. A group of men, a dozen or so, were congregated in the main street, brandishing weapons and looking threatening. Prentiss and Yohann, two old builders who had taken in Maura after the events of the other night, lay bloody on the ground, still breathing for the moment. Maura herself was being gripped roughly by the hair, her face swollen and bruised.

Viola withdrew back into her house, but Ya’vanasha walked forward, untrammeled by the fear that seemed to grip the rest of the village.

“My name,” began the leader of the gang, the one currently holding Maura like a limp doll, “is Mikhail Kravenoff. You will all pay for the fate that befell my brother!” Maura cried out in pain as, still clutching her hair, he dragged her into a standing position. “Starting with this bitch here!”

The elf continued walking, ignoring the heavily armed men. His face whipped towards her, taking her indifference as an affront. “You there! Who said you could leave?”

She stared at him, and the expressionless mask communicated her apathy very clearly. “This is none of my concern,” she told him. “I’m only passing through.”

“Hey, she’s an elf!” said one of the men, pointing at her accusingly. Viola rolled her eyes.

Dropping Maura, the leader marched over to her. He was a head taller and much thicker, with a bushy brown beard broken by a streak of white hair down the middle, his head shaved completely bald. He carried a greataxe on his back, and was dressed in thick leather armor with pauldrons coated in fur. He leaned over the elf, but she stood there, staff resting against the ground, completely unconcerned.

“The fuck is an elf doing in this village?”

“What are _you_ doing in this village?” Viola shouted with a confidence she didn’t know she had. “There’s nothing left for you to take. All of it’s burned now.”

“Not all of it!” He threw his arms out to the side, pacing around in a circle, looking at the terrified crowd. “All of you will answer for my brother’s death! You worthless bunch of peasants, who aren’t worth the cow shit I scraped off my boots this morning! Men! Kill them all! But bring me that whore first, so I can experience some of this village’s famed hospitality.”

“And what about me?” asked Ya’vanasha. “Like I said, this has nothing to do with me.”

He scowled. “I don’t trust you. You’ll burn with the rest of them.”

The elf sighed and rolled her eyes. “As I thought. Very well then.”

Viola couldn’t hear the words she muttered, but the runes on the staff began to glow, and the temperature dropped even further. The brigands looked around as the snow began to creep up from the ground, hardening into ice that slowly engulfed them. Mikhail was the only one untouched.

“What is this?” he shouted, looking nervously around him. “What’s happening?”

“You should have let me walk away,” the elf said before, with a brief glow, a blade of pure ice formed in her hand, transmuting into metal as she finished summoning it. Before he could react, he plunged it straight into his belly, and the creeping ice that had consumed the rest of his men began to slowly encase him as well. When he was frozen completely, she swung the staff twice above her head before smashing him to pieces.

“Well that was anticlimactic. I expected more of a fight.”

On the ground, Maura gazed up at her with a mixture of shock and gratitude, before running to check on the two old men who had also taken a beating, presumably from defending her.

The rest of the villagers now looked at her in terror, retreating back into their homes. Ya’vanasha shrugged and continued walking down the road. Leaping from her house, Viola caught up to her. “How the hell did you do that?”

She could hear the smirk in her voice. “Just a little magic trick. Honestly I didn’t even break a sweat.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” she declared. “I can’t stay in this _bloede_ village one more fucking hour. I think at this point It’s just cursed.”

“Very well then,” said the elf. “Gather your things and let’s be on our way. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

* * *

Beyond the veil, in a world unreachable by man or elves, a presence watched a small orb, which shifted and swirled, occasionally revealing events long past or yet to come. Three in particular coalesced one after the other, none of which went exactly as planned. Still the figure never lost her smirk. She could still work with this.

“Ah well,” she said, extinguishing the orb. “I suppose I’ll just have to do better next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since we had a proper action scene, so I'm giving you three of them. It's important to take a break from all the plotting and character drama and just cut loose sometimes. Since the last fight scenes were desparate struggles for survival, I wanted to switch gears and show everyone taking out canon fodder to show off how powerful they are.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts.


	36. A Fine Vintage

“Massacred.” Houvenaghel said it slowly, pondering over it as he swilled the wine around in the glass he held. “You’re certain?”

“Not a man survived, Sir.” The messenger, a young man named Bertrand, lowered his head a bit, as if that would hide the shaking of his knees. “Every last one of them, gone.”

“The Silver Crows too?” Bertrand nodded. “And Kravenoff?”

“Yes, Mister Houvenaghel. They were destroyed by their targets as well.”

Wrapping a  large palm around his forehead, Houvenaghel sighed. “This is what happens when I outsource. Did you learn anything else? Like how in the hell they managed to do that?”

He shook his head. “Regretfully, none of us are able to talk to ghosts. But we do know that among the Rats there are two mages, a witcher, and a werewolf.”

“I’ve never heard of any of those causing slaughter on this scale. And how did Matthias and his Silver Crows die? They weren’t even supposed to attack Onyx Squadron. What went wrong?”

“No one’s sure. But their bodies were found in the woods, riddled with arrows. One member of Onyx Squadron is legendary with a bow.”

“He must’ve had some reason for going off script. But how did a bunch of villagers manage to kill Mikhail Kravenoff?”

“The ones we talked to said it was some sort of elven mage who did it. No one’s sure of her name or where she came from, and she wore a mask. She cast a spell and the entire gang literally turned to ice.”

“Is that all you were able to learn?”

He nodded.

“Very well then. It seems clear we must approach this problem from a different angle. You are dismissed.”

With a deep bow, Bertrand took his leave, and Houvenaghel stared out over the empty fighting arena, wine still swirling in the glass. His hand trembled a bit as he considered the magnitude of what he’d just lost. The Red Razors had been the largest gang in the area, and a great deal of his understandings with the other hanses relied on their support. And now they were dead. Every last one of them.

How had the Rats managed it?

When he’d first heard their name two years ago, he could hardly take them seriously. Even when they raided his caravans, the losses were so small that he barely even considered them a nuisance. By the time he’d gotten around to sending people after them, they had grown into a force to be reckoned with. Enough so that the witcher and sorceress he’d tasked with their destruction had apparently joined them instead.

It was clear at this point that he couldn’t just keep throwing bodies at the problem until it went away. He needed to try a different approach.

“Sir,” said one of the guards. “There’s a man here requesting an audience with you.”

Houvenaghel glanced at him sideways. “Tell him I’m not available.”

“I did, Sir. He’s quite insistent.”

He grumbled. “Tell me his name.”

“Master Mirror.”

The wine glass plummeted from his hands and shattered, staining the wood a deep crimson.  Houvenaghel stood up rapidly and scrabbled over to the edge of the private box overlooking the arena, before remembering that he had nothing to fear. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and stood up straight. “Let him in.”

The guard nodded and returned to his post. A minute later, a bald man in a blue and yellow tunic emerged from the door, hands clasped together over his waist, smiling like the devil.

“Gaunter O’Dimm,” he snarled, low and menacing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He ignored the pleasantries, zeroing in on the wine stain on the floor. “My, my. It appears you’ve made a mess of things.”

Scowling, Houvenaghel adjusted his robe, drawing it tighter against himself. “It’s nothing that can’t be cleaned.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” he said. “Once the wine seeps into the wood like that, the stain never really goes away. It’s a bit like blood in that regard. It might fade away until it’s barely a memory, but you’ll never rid yourself of it entirely.”

“I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

“To congratulate you,” he replied, gesturing out with his arms. “On your spectacular failure. How _will_ you recover from this, I wonder?”

“I still have control of the city and its guards,” said Houvenaghel. “And I didn’t completely rely on the Red Razors to keep the other gangs in line. I’ve lost very little, all things considered.”

“Which means you’re safe… for now.” He walked closer, moving around the table, before leaning up against the balcony railing opposite of where Houvenaghel stood. “Yet you never know what tomorrow may bring.”

He clenched his jaw, and pointed accusingly. “Take care that you do not violate our pact, creature. You know that you may not collect on my debt unless—”

“Unless that damned cousin of yours, Leo Bonhart, ruins you from beyond the grave,” Gaunter O’Dimm finished. “I’m well aware.”

“It also states you may not use your powers to bring about that circumstance, nor set anyone against me in pursuit of it. If you were behind that massacre, then…”

He grinned. “Rest assured, I always comply with the terms of a contract. I haven’t set anyone against you. In fact, it was _you_ who attacked _them_.”

His response died in his throat as he realized he had no counterpoint. Gaunter O’Dimm tapped his fingers together and walked still closer, never losing that smug grin.

“I imagine you’ll concoct some story to explain to the other gangs why the fate that befell their brethren shouldn’t discourage them from continuing to work with you. I also suspect that the Empire will be glad to learn you’ve rid them of such a scourge. They may even reward you. Burning the candle at both ends as always, never concerned with what might happen when the wax finally runs out.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said, injecting more confidence into his voice than he actually felt. “This is one debt on which you’ll never collect. I’m a businessman too, you see. I know how to structure my contracts so I come out ahead.”

Master Mirror shrugged. “You’re hardly the first merchant I’ve dealt with,” he said. “And you couldn’t afford any of this bravado when you first met me, begging for scraps of bread in the rain. How quickly you all forget the magnitude of what you owe me. I’ve given you everything you could ever wish for. But it’s never enough for any of you, because in the end the only thing that matters to you… is you.”

His smile grew wider. “If you really appreciated everything I’ve done for you, you’d jump at the chance to repay your debt. Instead I must invoke the emergency clauses, dragging it out of you like wringing blood from a stone. This could all be so much simpler if you’d just accept your fate.”

“If our positions were reversed, would you make such a concession?” He pushed off the balcony railing and strode back over to the table, sitting down in his chair. “I promise you, Master Mirror. I will deny you your prize for as long as I live. If you wanted things to be simple, you should have chosen someone else.”

“Very well, then.” Gaunter O’Dimm walked past him, stopping at the door and sparing one last glance over his shoulder. “I’d hoped we could resolve this like gentlemen. Now you will see what happens when you try to cheat me.”

Houvenaghel turned to rebut him, but he was already gone.

* * *

“So then,” said Mistle looking out over their new campsite, miles away from yesterday’s slaughter. “Here we are again.”

Tomen had been tied to another tree, still beaten all to hell. She was flanked by Ciri and Syanna, while the rest of the gang stood in a semicircle around them.

“I told you,” he said, staring fearfully at them. “I wasn’t the one who brought this down on you. I came to warn you of danger, not put myself right in the middle of it!”

“Yet when I found you running through the woods, your bonds had been severed, and you had left before the attack even began,” said Syanna. “If I hadn’t seen your tracks leading from the tent, I may not have caught up to you at all.”

“How _did_ you notice that?” asked Horace. “Seems odd that you’d be up and about when everyone else was asleep.”

She turned around and crossed her arms. “Better question: how did he escape on your watch? You were supposed to guard him.”

“I was taking a piss,” he said. “Figured he wasn’t going anywhere. Scouts must have been watching, waiting for an opportunity, because as soon as I got back he was gone.”

Tomen opened his mouth to respond, but no words came forth. Mistle narrowed her eyes.

“However this happened, the Red Razors are dead now. He stands to be more useful to us alive.”

“How’s that?” asked Sheana.

“If we learn who sent him, we can employ the same trick in reverse,” said Ciri, walking around the tree in a circle. “Stage an ambush of our own. And I have a fairly good idea who it was.”

“Houvenaghel,” said Keira. “Everything in this province leads back to him.”

He stared at them, utterly perplexed. “What? Houvenaghel? I’ve never met the man.”

“But you’ve surely had contact with his subordinates,” the sorceress replied. “Someone who could have convinced you to help stage such an attack.”

“The only man I know who worked for Houvenaghel was Caelan, and I planned on claiming the bounty for him. If I were really interested in ambushing you, why would I come warning you of danger? I learned your location easily enough with some good old fashioned tracking. Why talk to you at all if I was just going to betray you? Why not join the raiding party myself?”

“I’m curious how you tracked a group containing two witchers, a former Scoia’tael soldier, and a sorceress through fresh snow,” said Ciri. “All by yourself, even. You _must_ be good at this.”

“In fairness, he is,” said Stephanos. “And if I may vouch for the man, he’s not the sort to pull a scheme like this.”

“Then how the fuck did they find us?” Mistle shouted, whirling around. “Sheana and Faloanthír were supposed to be on watch around the time they attacked. What happened?”

“It’s because we were that they didn’t slash all our throats in our sleep,” said Sheana. “But it all happened so fast, and there were dozens of them. They came in from all directions. I’ve no idea how that large of a force managed to sneak up on us in the middle of the night.”

“And where were you two?” asked the elf. “You didn’t show up until after the brawl had begun.”

“That’s not important.” She turned back towards Tomen. “From now on, we double the guard around him. Don’t let him out of your sight. Syanna, I know you don’t like doing grunt work, but…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, crossing her arms and stepping closer. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Sheana, you help her.” She grumbled. “The rest of you, make sure we have a secure perimeter. That means traps, alarms, patrols, that sort of thing.”

“Why don’t we just kill him?” asked Lambert. “It’d be a lot easier than keeping two guards on him.”

Mistle shrugged. “Like I said, he could still be useful.”

“And if it’s security you’re worried about, I have spells that I can cast,” said Keira. “Honestly I’d have done it earlier if you felt the need for it. If anyone gets within a hundred yards of the campsite, I’ll know about it.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“I promise you, I wasn’t responsible for this,” said Tomen. “But that won’t be the end of it. Whoever sent them, if they found you once they’ll do it again. And again, and again, until you’re dead. You should be focusing on the real danger here.”

“Yes, this Onyx Squadron of yours,” said Ciri. “Yet it wasn’t them who attacked us. And whoever was behind it has learned what we’re capable of. I don’t think they’ll be quite so reckless the next time. Which means you should tell us the rest of what you know. Right now.”

“I’ve told you everything,” he said. “You have to believe me.”

“No we don’t.” Her pupils flared and started to glow bright green. “You’re hiding something still. I can sense it. And we have plenty of time to figure out what it is.”

He said nothing in response, recoiling away from the intensity of her glare.

“Untie him,” said Mistle. “Take him back to camp and keep a close eye on him. We’ll get him to talk.” She leaned in closer. “One way or another.”

* * *

Once the prisoner had been taken back to camp and securely locked up, Lambert and Keira  set to work securing the perimeter. They walked in a wide circle around the camp, with Keira focusing on setting her alarm spell while Lambert set traps of a more physical nature. When that was complete, they found a quiet spot in the woods to talk.

“I don’t like this,” he said bluntly, crossing his arms and staring at the camp. “I’ve gotten involved in some pretty shady things to protect Ciri, but this just might take the cake.”

Keira shrugged. “We’ll not convince her to abandon these folk. And they’re not so bad. I got a new protégé out of the deal.”

“Whereas all I’ve got to work with is what passes for swordplay these days,” he replied. “Gotta admit, though: they held their own. We might just be able to pull this off.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, patting him on the cheek as she walked around him in a circle. “I’ve been trying to come up with a plan for how to distribute the cure, once we’ve gotten rid of the only man with the infrastructure to reliably do so. The only answer I can come up with is to let the Empire know it’s there.”

“You still care about that?”

“It’s a monumental accomplishment,” said Keira. “A cure for the Catriona, a disease that’s ravaged the world for more than five years. That’s the sort of legacy I’d like to leave behind. I don’t care about getting paid for it; I’ve got enough money stored away to last me five of _my_ lifetimes. But it’s one good thing that I was able to achieve after years of making bad decisions. I can’t just give up on it.”

“That’s assuming he wasn’t just blowing smoke up your ass. For all we know he didn’t even make the stuff.”

“ _I_ may not be in it for the money, but any businessman who’s achieved what he has doesn’t just pass up this sort of opportunity. Besides, I checked before our meeting with him. It’s all in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. All I ask is that we leave that off our list of things to burn.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.” Scanning the forest, he narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Let’s head back.”

* * *

“So where is it you come from?” Viola asked as she and the elven sage travelled along the road, with only the horses they’d stolen from Kravenoff’s gang to keep them company. “Most elves I know of live in the North, near the Blue Mountains. The Emperor gave them that territory as a reward for helping out in the war.”

“I’m not from anywhere you would have heard of,” said Ya’vanasha. “And I don’t belong to the Aen Seidhe elves. I’m one of the Aen Elle, the Alder Folk.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Thousands of years ago we were the same people,” she revealed. “The Aen Undod. Then the Conjunction of the Spheres happened, and my kind went off in search of other worlds. We found one that suited us, and occasionally we visit this one. Or at least we used to.”

“Are you stranded here?”

Ya’vanasha shook her head, still staring straight down the path. “Not exactly. I have the means to find my way back, but I have business in this world. There’s someone I must find.”

“And this someone happens to be Leisl?”

“If what you’ve told me about her is true, then yes. The Elder Blood belongs to the Aen Elle. It was stolen from us by humans, and that has wrought centuries of madness and misfortune among its descendants. This girl is dangerous, and I seek to bring her under control.”

Craning her neck back, Viola stared at the back of her head. “You’re more forthcoming than I expected.”

“Are you accustomed to dragging the truth out of people?”

“If I have an entire evening and some booze it’s usually not so difficult,” she admitted. “But elves have a reputation for being secretive. They especially don’t trust humans.”

“And yet I was the one who proposed the idea of a partnership,” she replied. “You should let go of your preconceived notions about the world and the people in it. You’ll live longer.”

Viola shrugged. “Okay, then. Do you want to set up camp for the night? It’ll be dark in a couple hours.”

“Darkness isn’t a problem for me.”

“Well it is for the horses,” she said. “And we’ve been riding them all day. We should let them rest.”

The elf was silent for a minute or two. “It’s just a little further. I have something I must do, and I must be in a specific spot to do it. We should get there just after nightfall.”

“Lead on, then.”

* * *

As promised, they arrived at some elven ruins just after nightfall. They were remarkably preserved, not that Viola could see much of them even with the tip of Ya’vanasha’s staff glowing like a torch. The ruined husks of marble structures towered over them like ancient monoliths, a reminder that this world was much, much older than humanity.

The entire complex radiated outwards from a domed structure in the middle, which had long ago been split by a large crack, which dwarfed both of them by comparison. Viola stared up at it, curiously.

“What is this place?”

“An old communications array,” said Ya’vanasha. “Between this world and that of the Aen Elle. On solstices the Aen Seidhe would commune with us, when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest. That’s as much as the scholars of this world have been able to figure out, anyway. But it has another function.”

“Which is?”

“Come with me and find out.”

They traveled deeper into the structure, and soon darkness was all around them, staved off only barely by light from the staff. The floor felt uneven, and she looked down to discover that the entire place was covered in ancient runes.

“Stay close to me.”

She obeyed, and a minute later Ya’vanasha stopped, striking her staff against the ground, where it fit perfectly into a small hole. The elf uttered a brief incantation, which echoed and resonated throughout the chamber, as though spoken by more than one person. The runes on her staff began to glow a brilliant white, and the light spread out  from that point, illuminating the entire structure. She spun around, admiring it all.

“Holy shit.”

“See, the infrastructure of this world runs deeper than most people realize, even the surviving Aen Seidhe,” she remarked, her voice continuing to reverberate throughout the space. “This was all built as a way of keeping the worlds connected, even after the Conjunction of the Spheres. With it, one can send a message beyond the veil.”

She squinted with one eye closed “So why am I here? You hired me as your guide, but I don’t know anything about all this.”

“I selected you because you’ve lain with the girl I seek,” said Ya’vanasha, moving her hands in a practiced gesture, causing symbols made of light to dance in a pattern around the glowing staff. “Which makes you a useful component for this divination ritual.”

“You’re not going to spill my blood all over an altar, are you?”

She laughed. “I’m not a village witch who needs frog tongues or spring water collected under a full moon. I am an elven sage, able to draw the Power from my very surroundings. Your presence here is enough for the spell to work. Just stay where you are, and hold your questions until it’s over.”

Viola obeyed, watching as Ya’vanasha’s hands traced runes in the air which flared and pulsed with a life of their own. The structure surrounding them glowed bright, and she stared around in wonder.

The elf continued to recite an incantation, moving around the staff in a circle. The light gleamed ever brighter, and soon she had to cover her eyes to avoid going blind. More voices were added to the chorus, and the ritual began to reach a fever pitch. Just as it became overwhelming, all sound ceased, and the light died. There was a brief pause before a beam of light surged upwards from the ground, shooting off into the night sky. Both of them stared up after it until it disappeared.

“What the hell was that supposed to do?”

Ya’vanasha chuckled. “You’ll find out. Come on, then. Let’s take shelter for the night.”

* * *

“So,” said Emelie once they had finished setting up camp. “Am I the only one wondering why we’re still heading to Claremont after—and I can’t be the only one who heard this—the man we’re supposed to be seeking aid from sent someone to _kill us_?”

“Technically they wanted to gang-rape me and drag me in for a reward,” said Leisl. “This Houvenaghel might not even be aware that we need his help to set our trap. According to this Matthias fellow, all he really knows is that a few of his men are dead thanks to us.”

Amandine shook her head. “General Voorhis promised he would make the local powers aware of our mission, and all of them answer to Houvenaghel.”

“She has a point though,” said Daxyl. “Their mission wasn’t to kill anyone. I suspect those brigands saw a way of killing two birds with one stone and scoring an extra payday. The violence only came about because someone started slinging arrows at them.”

Rosalind shrugged. “Was I supposed to just let them take her?”

“Of course not. But there’s always more than one solution to a problem.”

“Not from where I was standing.”

“Enough,” said Amandine. “This doesn’t change the plan. If anything, it gives us extra leverage. Men like Houvenaghel generally charge a king’s ransom for this sort of assistance, especially since our mission is supposed to remain secret from His Imperial Majesty. This will shift the balance back in our favor.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“I’m still wondering who this Regis fellow was,” said Emelie. “He appeared out of nowhere, you said?”

Leisl nodded. “He said the ravens had been watching me for him, and he was sent by that mysterious woman, Scheherazade.”

“Right. Who the hell is she again?”

“All I know is that she saved me from destroying everything around me, including myself. In exchange she and I made a pact. I’m to help her with some grand purpose involving the Elder Blood, though she hasn’t deigned to tell me what that is yet.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it for now,” said Rosalind. “But we’ll be here to support you when the time comes.”

“You might be,” replied Emelie. “As for me, it depends on what the task is.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

A shrug. “Sorry, I’m just not personally invested in her like you are. But hey, if it involves something exciting, I might do it just for the thrill.”

“At any rate, we’re only a few days from Claremont,” said Amandine. “Let’s just stay focused on the task in front of us.”

They whiled away the rest of the evening around the fire, talking deep into the night. Leisl kept scanning the trees, looking for ravens. Eventually they retired to their tents, and went to sleep. None of them were watching the sky.

If they had, they might have noticed the ghostly retinue that trailed across the heavens, passing briefly in front of the moon.

* * *

“Hey,” said Ciri once it was dark, and she and Mistle were alone. “Can I talk to you about something?”

They were standing in a clearing a few dozen yards from the campsite, gazing at the stars. Mistle had been distant since the attack, during the moments when she wasn’t busy giving orders or standing around looking authoritative, trying to hide her fear. Ciri knew her too well to be fooled by it.

“What is it?”

“It’s been two days since the battle,” she said. “And you know I trust you with my life. But Tomen was right. We’re going to be facing a lot more fights like that. I need to know that you’ll be able to hold it together.” She frowned. “I know what it’s like to not have control. To feel like you could sunder the whole world if you had the opportunity.”

Mistle reared her head back. “Do you now? I know what you went through when you drew from that fire, but that’s _nothing_ compared to the thirst I felt. But in the end it didn’t consume me. I’m stronger than that. I’ve always been able to keep my bloodlust on a leash, even before I was brought back as a vampire.”

“I know.” She grabbed the back of the other woman’s head and brought their foreheads together. “It’s just I can’t help fearing that O’Dimm made you more of a monster than you were before. And that’s fine! I’m a monster too. Just promise me you won’t lose yourself to it.”

“You know I’d never hurt you.”

Ciri shook her head, and they separated. “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not even worried about the rest of the gang, but Mistle… we can’t solve all our problems by ripping everything in our way to shreds. That’s how we got in this mess to begin with.”

“Why not? It seems to be working so far.”

She chuckled. “You’re right. Forget I said anything.”

“Hey.” Mistle grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at arms length. “You’re only a monster because I made you one. If I hadn’t come along, you’d never have killed that man who tried to pull you off your horse. You’d not have threatened to ravage that baron’s daughter. I couldn’t see back then what kind of influence I was having on you. But I’m not sorry, because without me you would never have discovered who you really are.”

Frowning, Ciri turned away.

“Can you honestly say I didn’t save you from a life of boredom? You know where you were headed before we killed those trappers who took you prisoner? Your own father wanted to marry and impregnate you. With my help you found the killer inside you and set it loose. No more heroics, no more pretensions of a normal life. You can’t say you’re not better off.”

“A normal life wouldn’t be so bad,” she replied, softly. “And you didn’t make me a monster. I decided that on my own. All things considered though, there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than here with you.”

She grinned. “Glad to hear it.”

They embraced, and Ciri stared up at the sky, where she could see a series of specters passing in front of the moon. Her face went pale and she inhaled sharply, slipping out of Mistle’s grasp. The other woman glanced at her curiously, then turned her gaze to the sky as well.

“What is that, you suppose?”

“I don’t need to suppose,” said Ciri. “Damn it all, I thought this would end when we destroyed Eredin.”

“Ciri, what are you talking about? What is that?”

“You’ve never seen the Wild Hunt before? I told you what they did to me, what they wanted of me. I thought after they were defeated they wouldn’t come back to this world, but I guess some things never change.”

Mistle grabbed her hand. “Do you want to run?”

“No. Setting aside the fact that they’d find me instantly if I used my powers, if they meant to capture me they wouldn’t be parading across the sky like that. For now, they don’t know where I am. But we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

“Why _are_ they here, then?”

“According to peasant superstition, the Wild Hunt appears in the sky as an omen, foretelling a great war or tragedy.” She scowled. “Usually inflicted by them. If they _do_ find us, I’m not sure we can stop them.”

Mistle shrugged. “Like you said, Eredin and his generals are dead. And as far as they’re concerned, so are you. They might not be here for you at all.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the ghostly cavalcade. Eventually, the Wild Hunt faded from sight, and Mistle led her by the hand to their tent, where she lay awake, wondering exactly what sort of misfortune was set to befall them.

* * *

The folds of the tent parted, and Horace entered carrying a bottle of wine. Sheana flashed him a brief smile, while Syanna regarded him with a neutral expression. Tomen, arms tied behind his back, looked up briefly to acknowledge him, then went back to staring at the ground.

“Here to relieve you,” he informed them. “My turn to stand watch.”

Syanna nodded towards his hands. “Then what’s the wine for?”

“Oh, this?” He held it up to examine it. “Just something to pass the time. You want some?”

“I’ll pass.”

He shrugged and set it down on the ground.

“I’ll take some,” said Sheana. He uncorked it and poured, and she downed it in one large gulp. Syanna glared at her in mild disgust. “What?”

“Did no one teach you how to appreciate wine? You need to let it breathe first.” Taking the bottle, she poured it into a glass, swilling it around for a bit. “Like this.”

She brought it up to her nose, inhaling briefly, then passed it to the other woman. “Try it now.”

Taking another sip, more slowly this time, Sheana reeled briefly before composing herself and nodding vigorously. “That _does_ make a difference.”

Horace cracked a smirk. “You know your wines.”

“I grew up in Toussaint,” she replied. “I’ve had enough experience with wine to last a lifetime.”

“That why you left? Must have some reason for hanging around a bunch of brigands.”

She rolled her eyes, but offered no rebuttal.

“She got banished when she was young,” said Sheana, guzzling more of the wine, which already seemed to be loosening her tongue. “Ended up becoming the leader of an entire hanse. Then they all got killed by vampires.”

He glanced between them. “Any of that true?”

“More or less.”

“Must’ve been rough,” he said. “I can see why that would lead someone to a life of banditry. Me, my wife and children got killed by the Black Ones. Took my bow and hunted down the unit that did it, one by one. Then when there was no one left to take revenge on, I got invited to join the Rats. Makes me wonder if that was always how my life was supposed to go.”

Syanna groaned and reached for the bottle. “I’m too sober for this conversation.”

She didn’t bother filling up a glass, taking a long swig directly from the bottle, wiping off her lips when she was done. Tomen looked between them.

“Do I get any of that?”

All three of them turned to glare, saying nothing. He shrunk back.

“Every one of us has some kind of sob story that explains why we do this,” said Syanna. “None of it means a damned thing. People are hard-wired to search for patterns in everything, and we try to justify the decisions we make by claiming it was always meant to be, as if there’s a single defining moment that made us who we are. The truth is, we decided this path for ourselves. No matter what happened to us before. There’s always a choice.”

Raising a finger, Sheana opened her mouth to respond, but only gibberish came out. She looked vaguely dazed, and looked down towards the wine bottle, then at Horace, before falling over, unconscious.

“Well,” he said with a curious lack of emotion. “Someone can’t handle their alcohol.”

Despite her best efforts, Syanna began to wobble as the world around her spun out of control. “What’s… in this…?” She held up the bottle, as though it would spring to life and provide her with the answer. It said nothing.

Alarmed, she staggered to her feet, walking past him and bursting out of the tent, only to fall flat on her face in the snow. There was a soft thud, and then silence. Horace unsheathed a knife.

Tomen’s eyes widened in fear. “I didn’t tell them anything. Just like you wanted.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” He moved closer, kneeling down beside him. “It’s too bad the assault failed, but at least you remembered to keep your mouth shut. I suppose there’s always next time.”

“Next time? I agreed to do this once, as a favor to an old friend. If lightning strikes twice, who do you think they’re gonna blame? You should let me go free. Better yet, we should make our escape together. We can tell Houvenaghel where they are, and make sure we’re nowhere near the chaos when it all goes down.”

“Well see, that’s where our viewpoints diverge,” said Horace. “You’re an excellent tracker, but this gang has two witchers, a sorceress, and a former Scoia’tael. They’d find us in hours. Make mincemeat of us. I’m not that stupid. Are you?”

“Why did you even approach me in the first place? Why turn against your own comrades like that?”

“That’s just it,” he said, brandishing the knife back and forth, twirling it in his hands. “They were never really my comrades. Not by any choice of my own, anyway. It was all Gaunter O’Dimm, and that damn wish.” He glanced over his shoulder at Syanna’s boots. “She does have a point, though. We humans have a bad habit of justifying things to ourselves. That story about my family, for instance. That’s how I wish things had gone.”

He scowled. “But it’s not what really happened.”

Tomen stared at him, confused.

“See, I caught my wife in the stables one day with a Sergeant from the Black Infantry,” he said. “Once I’d hobbled him with an arrow through the kneecap, she revealed to me the truth: my children weren’t actually mine. They were his.”

Horace chuckled darkly. “‘You’re never home,’ she told me. ‘Always out hunting and carousing with your mates, never spending time with your family.’ Well how could I, when that family wasn’t mine to begin with? So I gathered the children, locked them all in the stables, and set fire to the whole thing. If they wanted to be a family so bad, let them burn as one.”

Staring at him incredulously, Tomen shook his head. “You could have just left them. You didn’t have to kill them all.”

“And yet I did. It’s the same reason I haven’t simply gone my separate way with this gang. If all it took was a wish to bind my fate to theirs, then I can’t just leave. They must cease to exist. Only then will I be free.”

“Well you saw what happened. If a hundred raiders can’t bring them down, what hope do you possibly have?”

He shrugged, examining the knife in the soft glow provided by the lantern light. “Very little, I’ll admit that. But they’ve no reason to suspect me. Especially not once you mysteriously vanish.”

“So you _are_ letting me go?”

“In a way.”

Before he could respond, the knife was already buried in his neck, splashing blood onto Sheana’s unconscious form. Tomen gurgled and died, the light draining quickly from his eyes. Horace looked over the scene dispassionately, then scowled.

“Better clean up this mess.”

It took ten minutes and some awkward footsteps over Syanna’s unconscious body, but he found a suitable spot for the burial. When all was said and done, he returned to his tent, and laid down. He slept perfectly fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of when I started publishing this story. It's grown far beyond anything I could have expected for it, and there are so many story beats left to hit it might take another year to get to everything else I want to show you. Thanks to everyone who's stayed with me for this long. Your continued support means everything.
> 
> This is the end of this particular story arc, and we'll be changing perspective again in two weeks. Send me your thoughts.


	37. Seventh Interlude

Beneath the moonlight, the longship glided through the water like a spoon skimming over butter. It was decorated more elaborately than its escorts, its sails emblazoned with the colors of Clan an Craite of Ard Skellig. At this time of night, only a skeleton crew remained above board, which made it the perfect time to stare out over the dark horizon. That was where Hjalmar found her.

“We’re a day out from Nilfgaard,” he said quietly, though he hadn’t the remotest chance of spooking her. “You should get some sleep.”

Cerys an Craite, Queen of the Skellige Isles, chuckled with amusement. “If it’s beauty rest yer concerned about, best take some yerself. I’m fine.”

“I won’t have to spend nearly as much time impressing people as you will,” he replied, then turned his head to the side and frowned. “And you know continental folk hate to see a woman in power. They’ll be twice as critical of you as they would be if I were king.”

She scoffed. “Next you’ll tell me if you were king we wouldn’t be on this fools errand at all. That we’d bring death to all the black ones, ‘til the continent ran red with their blood.”

Even though she wasn’t looking at him, Hjalmar knew that she could sense him shrug in response.

“Conquest isn’t superior to diplomacy, Hjalmar,” she continued. “Or the other way ‘round. They’re just tools, and a ruler needs to know which situation calls for which one. Da taught me that.”

“I know,” he replied. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“Well ye don’t need to. I’ve already explained the plan to you.”

Solemnly, he nodded. “You know, I still remember him from when we were children. I only ever talked to Ciri, but even then I felt like I couldn’t trust him. He never seemed satisfied with anything, even though he had a family who loved him.”

“Really? I barely remember him at all. I remember Ciri’s mother though. Poor thing.”

“You’re really sure about this?”

She didn’t answer for a long time, keeping her eyes fixed on the moon. Occasionally a cloud would float by and obscure it, but it shone strongly in the heavens, while the stars around it glittered like a million embers from a fire that had gone out long ago. Down below, the water was dark but calm, yet still too uneven to properly reflect the majesty above.

“I’ve been havin’ that dream again,” she told him. “The one where I’m hiding in the snow and underbrush from an owl. Just before I wake I can feel its talons digging into me, and I’m lifted up high into the night.”

“Ah, it’s just a dream,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s your own imagination goin’ wild, playin’ off yer fears of what’s to come. Don’t mean nothin’.”

Still not looking at him, Cerys shook her head. “Everything means somethin’. Especially dreams. Or did you miss those lessons with Ermion when we were children?”

He scoffed. “T’ain’t what I mean. I’ve heard of dream magic and fortunetelling and all that nonsense. Ciri used to tell me about her dreams sometimes, and those sounded rightly prophetic. But you an’ me don’t have some ancient Elder Blood feedin’ us visions. It’s just yer mind taking information you learn while awake, then scrambling it all in your sleep.”

“You never did believe me when it came to stuff like this.”

“Hey.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m tryin’ to reassure you. Won’t do you well to worry so much.”

“Bein’ told yer wrong isn’t very reassuring.”

He backed off, holding his hands up at chest level. “You’re right. Forget I said anything.” A flash of movement caught his eye, and both of them stared up at the moon. “What in the name of Ragh Nar Roog is that?”

Above them, in front of the moon, they saw a familiar ghostly retinue trailing across the sky. They remained silent as the Wild Hunt drifted by, every bit as naturally as the clouds. Both of them knew what the sight portended, and neither of them had to acknowledge it aloud. Those sailors who had stayed above board were mesmerized as well, and they all stared until the wraiths disappeared.

When they were gone, Cerys finally turned to look at him, and they exchanged a nod. It was Hjalmar who broke the silence.

“Well that’s not good, is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for more interludes. These have proven to be a good way for me to incorporate smaller scenes that don't really fit into other chapters, but still have an impact on the plot. Sorry this is a week late; I didn't have enough ready by the time the last update rolled around. I should hit the next update on time.


	38. Eighth Interlude

“And I swear, for a dead man he was an incredible dancer. As graceful as he is while fighting, Geralt never learned to move like that. If I’d met Vlodomir von Everec while he was alive, I wonder if things would have been different.”

Yennefer flashed a wry smirk, glancing at her sideways. “Would you have let him bed you?”

“Who knows? He came on much too strong, and if I weren’t doing a favor for Geralt I’d not have tolerated him as long as I did. He was relentless though, and if I’d been younger and less jaded he might have worn me down. It’s not like I haven’t slept with his type before.”

They were sitting in an open field, underneath the stars, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. Shani had suggested they take a break after being holed up in that library for a week. They’d barely seen Ida or Francesca the whole time, and were largely left to their own devices. Driven as Yennefer was, even she understood the need to take some time to reflect.

“I understand what you mean. When I was young and impressionable I let all sorts of men think I could provide the solution to all their problems with my vagina. These same men were the first to turn around and call me a witch when it turned out my whole life didn’t revolve around them.”

 Shani snorted, and a stream of wine spewed out of her nose. “You would not believe the number of marriage proposals I’ve gotten from someone whose rash I’d just treated. Why is it that men interpret me trying to make the best of the time I’m obliged to spend with them as a sign that I long to be forever theirs?”

“In my experience its because they figure any woman who doesn’t run screaming from them must be madly in love. Thus they engineer as many situations as possible where women are made to feel trapped by social obligation, so they have a captive audience. Only certain types of men are even aware of that, though. The rest just benefit from it without ever questioning why.”

“Geralt’s different in that regard, I suppose. They say witchers don’t have emotions, but I’ve never met a man who’s so good at recognizing when I’d rather not be somewhere, and he’s never pressed my boundaries the same way someone like Vlodomir would. I suppose I’ve you to thank for training him so well.”

Yennefer shook her head. “He’s always been like that.  A bit pigheaded, didn’t trust me further than he could throw me for a long while, not that I gave him much of a reason to. But he never pretends; never tells people what they want to hear just to get what he wants. He’s honest, for better and worse.”

“You can say that again.”

They didn’t talk for a few minutes. Occasionally they took a sip from the wine bottle, but mostly they stared up at the sky, letting the beauty of the night wash over them.

“You know, I thought you’d despise me.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For laying with Geralt so many times. I never thought of myself as a rival to you, and the last time we saw each other I told him I was looking for a stability that he could never provide, but still. The stories I’ve heard about you don’t paint you as the most forgiving of individuals.”

“Rightly so. But unlike certain others, you and I had no connection. I never even met you until I landed here. When Triss fucked him it ruined our friendship for years, because she knew how much he meant to me and she did it anyway. It was the betrayal that made me angry, not the sex. If I held a grudge against every woman Geralt ever slept I’d never get anything done with my life.”

“Well I’m relieved at any rate. You make for wonderful company.”

“You as well.”

Shani passed her the wine, and she took another swig. Her head was feeling light, and a pleasant tingling sensation spread throughout her body as her belly grew warm. She passed it back, and Shani leaned her head back as far as it would go, swallowing a large portion in one gulp.

“So how does a doctor with your esteem end up in a place like this? I know Oxenfurt wasn’t working out, but you could have gone anywhere. Why tag along with Dandelion?

“Like I said, he’s an old friend. Those are in short supply these days. I’m going through something of a transitionary period in my life, and it doesn’t hurt to have some familiar faces around.” She smiled, glancing over at Yennefer. “Not to mention a few new ones.”

She smirked.

“We should head back now.”

“Right.”

Yennefer attempted to stand, staggering to her feet before Shani’s surprisingly strong hands helped her up the rest of the way. For reasons neither of them fully comprehended, they glanced up at the moon. Her violet eyes widened, and she had to fight to keep the panic from setting in. Shani, by contrast, squinted to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

“Are you seeing that too?”

“Yes. And I suspect we’re not the only ones.”

“That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”

She nodded, then started moving with a much greater degree of sobriety. “You can say that again. Come on, let’s rejoin the others.”

They dashed hurriedly towards the camp, while above them the Wild Hunt finished its journey across the moon.


	39. Ninth Interlude

Inside the cave, all was quiet and still, but not serene. Only the distant sound of rushing water could be heard, and even then just barely. Monsters from the darkest of nightmares lurked elsewhere in the subterranean cavern, but even they gave this chamber a wide berth.

The sound of footsteps began to echo through the cavern, accompanied by whistling. A figure trekked into the chamber with unrelenting confidence, displaying no signs of fear or concern despite the enormity of the danger contained within.

There was a blur of motion, and suddenly another creature, not quite a man, was face to face with the intruder, snarling with great menace. After a moment, recognition set in and the Unseen Elder relented, zipping back across the cavern.

“Oh. You.”

“Yes,” said Gaunter O’Dimm. “Me.”

“Why have you come?”

“Certainly not for a social call. You don’t seem to get many of those.”

Another flash of movement, and the Unseen stood next to him again. “You want something.”

“Straight to the point, as always. I admire that about you. Very well.” He clasped his hands together. “It’s come to my attention that two of the _vampires superiores_ over which you have dominion have been inserting themselves into my business in a manner that has proven… distracting.”

The beady, animalistic eyes narrowed as his face formed a scowl. “Name them.”

“The first is Orianna, whom I’m sure you’re aware hosts a local art society gathering known as the Mandragora. Two weeks ago at a ball, she attempted to feed on someone bearing my mark. I didn’t have to intervene at the time, but I did later when she went after the woman who rescued the marked one. Since then, she’s been making herself awful hard to find.”

The Unseen nodded, understanding. “You want me to summon her.”

“Not for me, you understand. There are those who wish to have a word with her. The Duchess, for instance. You must make her understand that slaughtering her way out of this is not an option. She’s done enough damage to my plans already.”

“Very well. It shall be done. Who is the second?”

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he answered. “Regis for short. I understand he’s already on bad terms with the rest of you, having killed one of your own. I can tell you where he’s hiding.”

Craning his head back, the Unseen narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I believe he’s forged a dangerous alliance with someone directly opposed to my plans. He’s already interfered with them twice. Rather than deal with him myself, I thought you might prefer to handle it.”

“Where is he?”

“Ebbing. A few days’ ride from Claremont. Whoever you send should be able to sniff out the rest from there.”

 The Unseen said nothing in response, turning his face away.

“Don’t go having second thoughts now. Remember what I’ve promised you.”

“You have yet to deliver.”

Smirking, O’Dimm paced further into the cavern. “In time. Certain things must be in order, and even my powers have limits. I can’t rewrite the _entire_ universe on a whim.”

There was a frustrated grumble, then silence.

“Besides, you don’t have to kill him. Just keep him locked in a dungeon or something, the way you did with Kagmar. Just as long as he doesn’t jeopardize everything that we’ve been working towards.” The Unseen was in front of him again in the space of a single blink, and O’Dimm leaned forward. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be going.” He turned around and started moving towards the entrance, while the Elder had already reclaimed his spot on the ceiling, hanging upside down with his arms crossed. Gaunter O’Dimm stopped, peering back over his shoulder. “One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“You’ll be having more guests soon,” he elaborated. “Try not to kill them on sight.”


	40. What Lies Beneath

Although they were only used to their fullest extent for a few weeks each year, the Tourney Grounds just southeast of Beauclair were maintained by a small army of servants and guards who ensured that the area would not fall victim to overgrowth or descend into disrepair. Smaller events also took place in the off-season, such as horse races or the occasional fair. Currently there were no tents set up, and the three of them had the area to themselves.

“Are you certain about this?” asked Lady Vivienne de Tabris, keeping her distance from the small bulldog whose leash was held by Palmerin De Launfal, who walked on the other side of Geralt. “If this curse is to be lifted, surely a mage’s laboratory would be a better place to start?”

Geralt shook his head. “Curses like this one are usually related in some way to an area that has significance to the person afflicted,” he explained. “Just like you and your clearing. There are strong emotions lingering in this place, born out of his unrequited desire for you. That alone can generate enough magic energy to make lifting the curse easier.”

“But you still haven’t told us how exactly this ritual is supposed to work,” she replied.  “I hope you don’t suggest transferring the curse like you did when trying to lift mine.”

“Not really a practical solution in this case. It took years for your curse to fully manifest, and even then you could stave it off by returning to your clearing. Guillaume was transformed instantly, which means the magic was way more powerful. My medallion vibrates a lot more strongly near him.”

“Who could be capable of such magic? And why would they be so spiteful?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm likes to get his kicks by ruining people’s lives,” he told her as they made their way through a small field.  “Not really sure if he has a reason, or if it’s just his nature. At any rate, a wish granted by making a pact is almost impossible to undo.  The good news is Guillaume never actually signed a contract. He just wasn’t careful with the way he worded his wish.”

“I imagine some idiom referencing a dog’s loyalty was employed,” said Palmerin. “If what you’ve said about this Gaunter O’Dimm is true, that must have been too poetic to resist.” He sighed and shook his head. “Alas, my nephew has never been a cunning man. Regardless, I appreciate your offer to help.”

“As do I,” added Vivienne. “Though I do not reciprocate Sir Guillaume’s feelings towards me, I would not wish this fate on anyone, even if I hadn’t suffered a similar one myself. What must we do to save him?”

They came to a stop in the center of the field, and Geralt scratched the back of his head, grimacing. Vivienne planted her hands firmly on her hips and arched an eyebrow, as if sensing what he was about to say.

“Please tell me this does not involve a kiss of some sort.”

He shook his head. “Not on your end. Most transformation curses require true love’s kiss to break, and you clearly don’t love him. But he loves you.”

She narrowed her eyes and took a few steps back. “I hope you are not implying what I think you are.”

“Right now, Guillaume still retains some of his mind as it was before he got cursed,” explained Geralt. “But given time, the curse will eat away at that until he really is just a dog. The whole twisted irony of the situation is that all he wants to do is be with you, but you won’t accept him in any form. That’s what’s fueling the curse.”

“So then what am I to do?”

“You need to spend a bit of time with him,” said Geralt. “A few hours, nothing more. But none of this will work if you keep rejecting him. Once he transforms back, you can do whatever you want. But if you want the curse to break, you need to embrace him in the meantime.”

Vivienne craned her head back. “What is that supposed to mean? I’m to allow a dog to have his way with me? I do not know where you get such ideas, but—”

“Like I said, Guillaume’s conscious mind is mostly locked away. He’s attached to you in this form because he remembers loving you, but his reactions will still be those of a dog. Just… play with him for a while. Let him sit with you. Don’t keep pushing him away.”

“I still don’t understand. Surely being with me for the rest of his days was his wish. How will going along with that break the curse?”

“Because as Sir Geralt has said, the trickster O’Dimm knew that you would spurn him upon learning of the curse,” said Palmerin. “And yet his fate would still be bound to yours, so you would never be rid of him. Given enough time, the resentment wrought by such an arrangement would turn to hatred, which would put the final twisted capstone in the tale of misery he decided to weave.”

Geralt nodded, crossing his arms. “And it would make the curse impossible to break once a certain threshold was passed.”

“This O’Dimm must be having quite a laugh at my expense,” said Vivienne. “For it seems I must choose between my compassion and my desire to be left alone by a knight who was so foolish as to wish to be forever bound to me, thinking he loved me when really he only loved the fantasy he built up in his own head.” She scowled at the horizon. “What would drive someone to make such a wish?”

“I did it to stop a djinn from destroying a whole town,” said Geralt, looking away uncomfortably. “I barely knew Yennefer back then. Over the years we’ve loved and hated each other in equal measure, but we chose each other in the end. She finally found a way to break the wish, and it didn’t change a thing between us.”

She nodded morosely, narrowing her eyes. “For one who discounts fairy tales, you ought to know that the love between you and your sorceress has been an inspiration to countless young knights like Guillaume, who get it in their heads that the object of their affections is somehow promised to them by destiny. Though he has fallen out of favor with Her Grace, Master Dandelion’s ballads are still quite popular here.”

“Real life is nothing like those ballads,” he said. “I’ve seen Yennefer at her best and her worst, and she’s seen me at mine. What matters is that we made the decision to be together, knowing it could all end the way it has before. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a choice you make every day.”

“How does any of this help us to break the curse? I don’t love Guillaume, and he mistook his obsession with me for some romantic ideal. This isn’t like what you have with Yennefer.”

“That’s exactly my point. There’s no such thing as being meant for each other. Guillaume tried to bind himself to you through a wish, but that’s not real love. If you want to break the curse, you both have to get to know each other for who you really are, regardless of what happens later. Either that, or you can just let him be a dog forever. It was his own damn fault, after all.”

“I already stated that I don’t wish for him to be trapped in this state forever, especially since his mind would eventually be lost entirely. Very well. I shall stay here with him until the curse is lifted. But Sir Palmerin shall not leave my side. I suspect explaining all this to Guillaume will require more than simply talking to him.”

“But of course,” said Palmerin. “My nephew can be quite impetuous even at the best of times. Will you wait with us, Sir Geralt?”

“Love to, but I have to give my report to the Duchess. Orianna’s still nowhere to be found.”

“To think that such a fearsome predator could be hiding in our midst, feeding on children, no less! Why it boggles the imagination.”

“That’s one way of putting it. If the curse hasn’t lifted by sundown, come find me. There’s more than one way out of a wish.”

Nodding, Palmerin walked nearer to Vivienne, bringing the dog with him. They sat down in the grass together, and the dog clambered excitedly onto Vivienne’s lap. Geralt stared at the scene for a few moments before walking away.

* * *

“I’m not lying to you Ida,” said Yennefer as she and the elven sage walked through the hallways of the palace. “And I wasn’t imagining things. The Wild Hunt has returned to this world, and I have my suspicions as to the reason.”

“You said yourself that you’d been drinking,” Ida replied. “I assure you, if a cavalcade of Aen Elle were flying in front of the moon last night, we would have noticed.”

“I never drink enough to get completely sotted, and Shani saw it as well. Eredin and his generals are gone, but that doesn’t mean the rest of them aren’t still interested in Ciri and the Elder Blood.”

“And this should concern me why, exactly? Will you not be satisfied until you’ve destroyed all our brothers and sisters, across all the many worlds?”

“That’s not fair, Ida. I hold no special hatred for elves. After all, I’m coming to you for help, aren’t I?”

The elven sage’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and she said nothing as they continued to walk. “You know, Yennefer, I never quite understood why Francesca wanted to make you part of the Lodge. The goal of the whole endeavor was to create a new kingdom focused solely on the preservation and betterment of magic. But so far as I can tell, magic has always come second to your own _bloede_ sentimentality, no matter how much you want others to view you as a heartless bitch.”

“Meaning?”

“The rest of us were only ever interested in Cirilla for the bold future she represented, one in which we could place a Child of the Elder Blood, one of the most powerful individuals ever to live, on a throne where she could be the catalyst of a new world order. But you had your own agenda regarding the girl, and Francesca knew that. We should have seen it coming.”

Yennefer shrugged. “I can’t say your suspicions were unfounded. But I fail to see how wanting to rescue the girl I’ve come to think of as my daughter is a bad thing.”

“From an objectively moral standpoint it probably isn’t. But you know damn well what I’m actually trying to say.”

They had passed into a small statue garden, which had been gradually overtaken by moss. Unlike humans, the elves didn’t fight back against nature’s advance, preferring instead to let things come to a sort of equilibrium.

“Of course. Our goals weren’t aligned back then, nor are they now. That’s never precluded us from sharing knowledge before.”

Ida sighed. “Very well. There _is_ something else that happened last night, which may explain what you saw.”

“What?”

“Long ago, before the Convergence, our people built a network of… well I guess you could call them beacons. A few still remain in places where the barrier between worlds occasionally grows thin, and were constructed there for that very reason.”

“To what end?”

“They served as a way to stay in contact, even when our people were split between worlds. They didn’t require the same level of power as the portals at Tor Lara and Tor Zirael, and it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that we built them. It’s more like we added on to something that was already there.”

Yennefer glanced at her sideways, the corners of her mouth curling into a slight frown.

“Last night,” Ida continued, “one of these beacons was activated. It was south of here, far south. Closer to Nilfgaard. It was Francesca who noticed it.”

“That’s where Ciri is,” she replied. “Which means my suspicions are probably correct.”

“In that case, don’t let me stop you from running to her rescue again. But I won’t be any part of it if your goal is to slaughter more elves.”

Shaking her head, Yennefer glared straight ahead. “I’ve come to accept that Ciri is capable of handling herself. But I fear this may be connected to Gaunter O’Dimm. Our research into the lost heirs hasn’t turned up anything useful, and Triss is still—”

“What?”

“Triss was sent to the world of the Aen Elle,” she said, the weight of it gradually starting to crush her. “To overcome a challenge set by O’Dimm. If Eredin’s followers survived in any form, then something terrible must have happened to her.”

“A tragedy, really. Still, there’s not anything you can do for her. From what you’ve told me, those challenges were yours alone to face.”

She only scowled.

“If that’s everything, I believe we both have business to which we must return. _Va faill._ ”

Ida continued walking, while Yennefer remained amidst the statues, pondering the future.

* * *

“Well?” asked Dandelion as Yennefer trudged back up to the camp, where he, Shani, Priscilla, and Zoltan sat around a campfire. Yennefer took a seat next to Shani, leaning forward and interlacing her hands together in the space between her knees.

“They definitely know more than they’re telling,” she said. “As I expected. Though Ida did throw me a bone, so to speak.”

“How do you mean?”

“If what she says is true, someone used ancient elven magic to make contact with the world of the Aen Elle. Apparently it’s tied to some of their ruins to the far south, near where Ciri is at the moment. But she refused to go into any further detail.”

“Wouldn’t be the first thing they’ve hidden from us since we got here,” said Shani. “From what Torque tells me, they’ve started sending out heavier patrols at night. Seems to me at least one of them would have seen what we did.”

“Where _did_ that sylvan get off to anyway? I never had the opportunity to return his little greeting.”

“He mostly sticks to the forest,” said Dandelion. “The first time Geralt and I met him he was stealing crops and agricultural secrets for the elves in the Blue Mountains, long before the wars. Actually, that was before either of us met you.”

Yennefer chuckled. “Simpler days, those.”

“Been wonderin’ what the reason is for those increased patrols,” said Zoltan, watching the fire. “So I found one and got ‘em drunk on some Mahakaman spirit. Turns out there’s a Nilfgaardian battalion massed near the border. Elves are afeared they might try to make a move.”

Priscilla squinted, tilting her head to the side, but said nothing. Dandelion nodded to her, and asked the question in her stead. “But didn’t Nilfgaard give Dol Blathanna to the elves for helping them in the wars? Why would they try and attack?”

“I’ve never known Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis especially, to be satisfied with what they have,” said Yennefer. “And when King Demawend died, the Aen Seidhe were no longer bound to the treaty signed at Cintra, which made a vassal of Dol Blathanna. When the third war started, Aedirn ceased to exist at all. It’s just part of the empire now.”

She frowned only slightly, before composing her face into a mask. Shani narrowed her eyes in understanding.

“That means Vengerberg is gone too, doesn’t it?”

Yennefer shrugged. “It’s only a place. The people I cared for there left long ago.”

They all nodded, and a few moments passed silently. Dandelion’s brow wrinkled as a new thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Your challenge.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You told us Gaunter O’Dimm said you had to confront an old ally, and sacrifice yourself to prevent a war. The only question becomes: which old ally does he mean?”

She raised an eyebrow, and he held his hands up in a pacifying motion.

“I only mean that you’ve worked with both of them in the past, even though you were never really on their side. You’re associated with Ida and Francesca through the Lodge, and you worked with Nilfgaard to find Ciri. Prophecies like that ultimately hinge on a twist in the wording, leading you to believe it means one thing when really it’s telling you something else entirely.”

“Also the word ‘sacrifice,’” said Shani. “It could mean any number of things. If he’s promised you knowledge at the end of this, it can’t mean giving up your life. You might have to sacrifice something else.”

“This is all assuming tensions escalate to that point,” Yennefer replied. “For now we should continue what we’ve been doing, and investigate this without letting either side know what we’re really up to. Zoltan, I assume you’re still adept at scouting? I’d like to verify this ‘battalion’ is even there before making any moves of our own.”

A grin slowly crawled across the dwarf’s face. “Oh, I believe me and the boys can manage.”

“Splendid. Shani, Dandelion, I need you to help me continue my research into the Elder Blood heirs. I can’t help feeling there’s something we’re missing. This will also provide us with cover to investigate what’s going on in the palace.”

They both nodded.

“Now, I believe I’ve had my fill of scheming before lunchtime,” she finished. “And I could definitely use a drink.”

* * *

It was times like this when Geralt really wished that Regis were still here to climb these steps with him. The last time they’d done so had set a bad precedent, but it wouldn’t hurt to go into this meeting with a friend at his side. He crested the final staircase, passing in front of the herald as he made his way towards Anna Henrietta, who stood at the balcony with the rest of Toussaint glimmering behind her in the midday sun.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia!”

He made his way towards her, noting Damien de La Tour’s position a few feet away from the Duchess, standing at attention with his  hands behind his back. To Anarietta’s right stood another figure, whose eyes narrowed when she saw him approach.

“Well, look who’s finally here,” said Fringilla Vigo, hands planted firmly on her hips as she scanned him head to toe with judging eyes. “Now the world can resume spinning again.”

He didn’t take the bait, and made his way closer until they were close enough to have a proper conversation.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. Standing up, he sent a nod the sorceress’ way. “Fringilla. Good to see you both.”

“Greetings, Sir Geralt,” said Anna Henrietta, clasping her hands together and raising them to about chest level. “Do you bring news of Orianna’s whereabouts?”

“Only that it’s just like the last time you wanted me to find a higher vampire. Once she got wind of half the garrison marching on her estate, she disappeared. I told you I should have gone alone. The oldest of the vampires only got that way because of how paranoid they are.”

The Duchess merely nodded, instead of throwing a fit like last time. “We admit that in our haste to see justice done, we did not anticipate Orianna being able to go to ground so quickly. Have you ascertained that she is still in Toussaint at least?”

He shook his head. “If I were her I’d be halfway to Brugge by now.”

Fringilla scowled. “I say we give up on the old fashioned tracking methods and let me have a go at it. Just have your men grab some hair samples from her estate and I can cast a spell that will locate her within the hour.”

“You’re welcome to try,” said Geralt. “But it’s a lost cause. Divination magic doesn’t work on vampires. Otherwise finding Dettlaff would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.”

“It’s not like you’ve anything to show for it either.”

The Duchess’ eyes narrowed as she glanced between the two of them. “There is something neither of you are telling us, and we find that highly concerning. Is there some cause for animosity between the two of you?”

“You mean she hasn’t told you yet?” Geralt asked, craning his neck back. “Interesting.”

She turned to Fringilla. “Told me what?”

“Just that the first time I stayed in Toussaint, she was operating as part of the Lodge of Sorceresses,” he elaborated. “Her job was to glean whatever information I had about where Vilgefortz was hiding, and she wasn’t shy about using any means necessary to get it.”

“If I recall, you didn’t exactly object to my methods. Or were you only trying to get back at Yennefer for what you thought she did to you?”

Geralt shook his head. “It’s in the past now. I’ve gotten over it. Have you?”

“Of course.”

“If you say so.”

“Enough of this,” said Anna Henrietta. “Fringilla, if you wish to join the Witcher’s search, you are more than welcome to do so. We could use all the help we can get trying to locate Orianna and bring her to justice.”

“You won’t have to look very far.”

They all whirled around to where the voice had come from, to see Orianna standing slightly behind and to the left of Geralt, as if she had been there all along. Damien’s hand went to his sword, as did all of the guards, but Geralt stood there calmly, arms folded across his chest.

“Stand down,” ordered the Duchess. “If she wanted us dead she would have killed us already.”

“A wise choice,” said Orianna, lowering her hands. She moved closer, until she and Geralt were side by side. “I heard you were looking for me. I must admit, the sight of all those guardsmen heading for my estate led me to believe you had something other than talking in mind.”

“That will depend greatly on how well you explain yourself,” she replied. “Our sister has gone missing. We have evidence to suggest that you might be the culprit. How do you answer to this charge?”

She placed a hand to her chest, rearing her head back in carefully feigned shock. “You think it was me? Whatever for?”

“The guard outside Syanna’s cell had his throat slit open by a  sharp claw,” said Anarietta. “The wounds bore a striking resemblance to those left by Dettlaff van der Eretein, the Beast of Beauclair. In addition to this, we know that you and Syanna had a confrontation during the ball. You could have easily gained access to the dungeon without alerting any of the guards, and from what we were told you blame our sister for Dettlaff’s demise. That is means, motive, and opportunity. Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”

“Well, there’s the lack of a body, for one thing. Though you’re correct that I can get in and out of anywhere I please, it becomes far more difficult to bring someone with me when I’m the only one who can transform into mist. And if I had killed her, wouldn’t there be some sign of a struggle?”

“That is not the only crime that has come to our attention,” continued the Duchess, her gaze now hard as steel. “Sir Geralt has made us aware of your arrangement with the late caretaker of the La Compassion Orphanage. Even after learning what you are, we allowed you to stay and coexist peacefully within the society of Beauclair. But to learn that you were feeding on children, this whole time…”

“I never drank so much as to kill them,” she insisted. “And they were well-compensated and cared for. Besides, with the Witcher here keeping such a close eye on them, I’ve not had a drink in months.”

“None of that makes it okay,” said Geralt. “You might be too old to care about human laws, but you can’t have your cake and eat it too. If you want to be part of a society, you have to follow its rules.”

“And what would a witcher know about living within the bounds of polite society? You’re a lot closer to us monsters than you realize. They’ll only put up with you until they have a reason to eat you alive like they’ve been dying to do all along.”

“Enough of this!” Anarietta shouted. “Orianna, if you wish to remain in Beauclair, if you do not wish for us to call the full might of our guardsmen down upon you and all your kind, you will tell us the truth. Now.”

The vampire smirked. “That threat isn’t as effective as you think. Your venerated guards, your legendary knights errant, even the Witcher here… they couldn’t have held back all of Dettlaff’s forces forever. If you mean to declare war on vampires, the first thing you must do is find us. And that might prove difficult.”

“Commanding an army of lesser vampires was Dettlaff’s trick, not yours,” said Geralt. “But think about the life you’ve built for yourself here. When you’re being hunted, nowhere is home for very long.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve started a new life somewhere far away. I’m here parlaying with you because I hope we can reach an understanding.”

The Duchess’ eyes narrowed. “What sort of understanding might that be?”

“I can tell you exactly who is responsible for Syanna’s disappearance,” she replied. “But you must promise me immunity first, for the manner in which I obtained this information could incriminate me on its own. Either that, or you shall never see me again. It’s up to you.”

There was a long pause, during which Orianna stood there calmly. Geralt met eyes with Damien, then Fringilla, and finally the Duchess, who appeared to be laboring long and hard over the decision. But in her eyes, Geralt could see that one had already been made.

“Very well. You have our word. Tell me who took my sister away, and you will be pardoned for whatever involvement you had in the affair.”

She smiled. “You’ve already met him, actually. He’s the reason that ball ended in such a spectacular fashion.”

Geralt’s eyes widened, as did Anna Henrietta’s. Fringilla squinted. “Well? Who was it?”

“He goes by many names. Master Mirror. The Man of Glass. But he introduced himself to all of you as Gaunter O’Dimm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned with the other story I'm writing, updates will occur every three weeks for the foreseeable future. This story needs more love and attention than I can give on a bi-weekly basis, and I have other things going on in my life.
> 
> That said, it feels so great to be writing these characters again. Geralt and Yennefer are built to deliver some of the best lines of any characters I've had the pleasure to write, and often they say something hilarious or profound without me intending them to; they're fully realized enough that sometimes it feels like their dialogue is writing itself.
> 
> We're gonna be spending a few chapters on this arc while we give the main storyline some time to breathe. This will make more of the larger picture start to come together.
> 
> Please comment if you can. I like to get a sense of how the story is being received by the people reading it. This lets me know what's working and what isn't.


	41. Dealbreaker

“Damn it,” Geralt muttered, not caring one bit about courtly etiquette by this point as he rested his forehead against the heel of his palm. “Of course.”

“I don’t get it,” said Fringilla, planting her hands on her hips. Next to her the Duchess turned contemplative, drawing one finger close to her chin. “Who is Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“A rather long story,” said Anna Henrietta. “We shall bring you up to speed later. For now, however…” Her gaze returned to Orianna. “What makes you so sure he was behind Syanna’s disappearance?”

“Because he stopped me from killing her.”

The shock of that statement rippled outward, and swords began to draw. Anarietta turned livid, a fire burning within her blood that practically nothing could quench. Geralt stood between them, his eyes moving cautiously back and forth, waiting for one of them to make the first move.

Finally, the Duchess managed to speak. “WHAT?!”

“I remind you,” said Orianna, holding up a finger. “You promised me immunity so long as I revealed the actual culprit. I’ve done just that. Now you can either let me finish explaining, or I shall leave and you’ll never get to hear the rest of the story.”

There was a long, tense pause as Anna Henrietta stood there fuming, breathing as deeply as her corset would allow. Finally, she raised a hand in the direction of Damien and the rest of the guards, who promptly sheathed their weapons again.

“Very well. Speak and you may yet deliver yourself.”

“Thank you.” She clasped her hands together and moved slowly into the center of all of them, pivoting slowly around and making it clear that she now possessed the upper hand. “I’ll admit my anger nearly got the better of me that night. But then… everybody’s emotions were heightened, weren’t they? Especially that noble girl. Falka, was it?”

She turned to look at Geralt when she said it. He folded his arms over his chest. “Your point being?”

“Oh, don’t act so naïve. I’m normally much more composed than how I behaved that night. I wasn’t really sure what had come over me until the Man of Glass showed up and made a show of overpowering me until I promised to leave Her Grace’s sister in peace. Almost like he’d planned it all along.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing in return.

“You mean to say that you were bewitched into attempting to murder Syanna?” asked Anna Henrietta, staring at her with great skepticism. “And here Sir Geralt had led us to believe that vampires were immune to magic.”

“Only divination,” said Geralt. “And O’Dimm doesn’t use what you’d think of as magic. One time he summoned an entire storm to help me escape from a ship I was trapped on, just by breaking a spoon. His power comes from making pacts, not casting spells.”

“Pact magic?” asked Fringilla. “Is he a demon?”

“Not sure. But close enough.” He turned to Orianna. “Guessing you landed on his radar when you tried luring Mistle onto the balcony. She’d made a pact with him, and he doesn’t appreciate it when people mess with those he’s marked.”

“How fortunate that Syanna interceded, then.”

He glared. “You know more than you’ve told us so far. What are you holding back?”

“Me?” she chuckled. “You’re keeping an even bigger secret. One that could land this Duchy in a world of trouble were it to reach the wrong ears.”

Geralt and Anarietta locked eyes, and both of them realized what she meant. Fringilla glanced between them, confused.

“Should I just go, then? This is rapidly becoming something I have no desire to get involved in.”

They ignored her, staring down the vampire instead.

“You see, I did a little investigating of my own,” said Orianna, pacing in the space between them. “It turns out that before she wound up in sunny Toussaint, this Mistle was the leader of a gang of bandits called the Rats, around the time of the Second Northern War. The young woman introduced as Falka was part of this same gang. But we shouldn’t kid ourselves. That’s not her real name, is it?”

Neither of them said anything.

“You want to know what tipped me off? You had to legitimize them by giving them Tesham Mutna. If you’d picked a different place I doubt I’d have been interested at all, but now it seems I’ve stumbled on a true scandal. Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, alive and well after all these years? And you try to pass her off as someone else even while you hold a ball in her honor. Why?”

Geralt’s scowl deepened. “What makes you think it’s her?”

“You mean aside from the ashen hair, green eyes, and the scar covering her left cheek? The way you responded when I said her name. That confirms it. I wonder how the Emperor would react if he learned she was still alive?” She pivoted slowly to face the Duchess. “And that his own cousin conspired to hide that from him?”

Anna Henrietta’s careful poise cracked, and she took a step back while glaring.

“Now, I’ve come to enjoy my life here in Toussaint. I’m invested in keeping things the way they are. So in return for maintaining my little secret, I’ll be sure and take yours to my grave. Does that sound fair?”

Grinding his teeth, Geralt stared her down, while she stood there, unmoved. “One of these days,” he promised, “you’re gonna run out of convenient excuses for me not to kill you.”

She chuckled. “Then why wait? I certainly can’t reveal anything if you slay me where I stand. Though it might prove more difficult than you think.”

He shook his head. “Because I made a pact with Gaunter O’Dimm too. And, as I’m just starting to realize, I need your help to complete my end of it.”

That succeeded in shattering her smug demeanor, leaving Orianna looking genuinely confused. Behind her, Anna Henrietta wore a similar expression, while Fringilla crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about, Sir Geralt?” asked the Duchess. “What sort of pact did you make?”

Sighing he closed his eyes and buried his face in one hand. “After the ball, Triss did some research into O’Dimm, and he got wind of it. To keep him from punishing her, and to find out more information about him, me, Yen, and Triss each agreed to overcome one challenge of his choice. He told me I would have to go down a path I swore never to travel, and humble someone who reaches beyond her station.”

Orianna stared at him, intrigued. Anarietta’s eyes narrowed, while next to her Fringilla looked even more confused.

“And what sort of help could I possibly offer you in this endeavor?”

“When Regis and I were hunting down Dettlaff, he said he knew of one method we could try, but it was so dangerous he wouldn’t even consider it as anything but a last resort. On the Night of Long Fangs, I found you at your estate and asked you about it.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned her head back as understanding dawned.

“I don’t know which of you Gaunter O’Dimm expects me to humble,” he continued. “But I know what I have to do now. I need to talk to your Unseen.”

* * *

“See? There they are.” A stubby red finger, attached to an arm covered in fur, pointed through the trees towards an encampment that was, to put it mildly, enormous.

Over a hundred tents had been erected, and soldiers of Nilfgaard patrolled the perimeter while inside the camp they could hear the shouts of drills being run, the clanging of hammers striking steel, and various animal sounds, mostly from horses. A few dozen yards to the right, four soldiers emerged with a freshly killed stag, dragging it off towards the fire. Their sylvan guide clenched his fist.

“Now that’s a right fuckin’ hornet’s nest,” said Zoltan. “Don’t look like they’re mobilizing though. Just bidin’ their time ‘til they get their orders.”

“They’ve been here since last week,” said Torque. “It’s a good thing you didn’t run into them on your way in. So far they haven’t actually crossed the border, but methinks it’s just a matter of time.”

“Well they’re not here for no ploughin’ picnic,” said Yarpen Zigrin, hand clutched tightly around his axe. “I say we sneak in there, find out where they keep their oil, and set fire to the lot of ‘em.”

“Nay,” Zoltan replied, shaking his head. “That’d only start a war.”

“So we’re to let them make the first move? Ye don’t put together a force of that size unless yer plannin’ a damn invasion.”

“Well it won’t do us any favors to make a ploughin’ unilateral decision either,” the dwarf replied. “Think of all the folk we’ve got back at camp who aren’t fighters, like Shani or Priscilla. Ye think they want to get drawn intae that kinda conflagration?”

Zigrin set his face into a hard expression for a moment, before nodding. “Aye. Forgot it’s not just us against them.  At the very least we should find out what the elves intend to do about it.”

“Right you are, mate. But Yennefer should be able to handle that part.”

“Ye really trust that sorceress? One time me and some o’ the lads here went along on a dragon hunt with ‘er. Damn near insufferable. In the end the beast got away.”

Zoltan shrugged. “If there’s one thing I know about Yennefer of Vengerberg, it’s that once she’s got her mind set on somethin’, ye can either help her or get out o’ the way. You never want to find yerself against her.”

“Agree with ye there. Lucky for me she spent most of that trip bein’ pissy at Geralt just ‘cause he hurt her feelings or somethin’. What the Reavers almost did to her, though… ah forget it. She got out of that fine, if a bit underdressed.”

A raised eyebrow was his only response.

“There,” said Torque, pointing again. “That one’s the leader.”

He certainly looked the part, wearing extravagant armor with an elegantly crafted breastplate that looked like it belonged in an art gallery rather than a battlefield. The dwarves sized him up immediately, concluding that this man had likely never seen real combat. He was young for a man of his station, early thirties or so, and he stank of nobility. He had slick, jet-black hair cut to about neck level, and a thoroughly punchable face.

“Know his name?”

The sylvan shook his head. “Nay. But he’s dressed the fanciest and all the others listen to him, so…”

“Fair enough. Well lads, let’s sit here awhile. See what we can observe. We’ll head back after nightfall.”

There was a chorus of grunts and nods, and the dwarves silently took positions around the camp, settling in for the next few hours as they watched the enemy.

* * *

While she had until now contented herself with small chuckles here and there, Orianna could not stop a burst of laughter from escaping, and threw one hand over her mouth as she stumbled back. “You want to talk to the Unseen? Now?”

Geralt nodded.

“As I told you the first time you came to me with such a request, there are easier ways to kill yourself. At least back then there was a city in danger of being destroyed; something important enough to justify coming to visit him. But now? He’ll cut you to ribbons before you utter a word.”

He stood there, resolute. “Doesn’t matter how dangerous it is. I still need to do it.”

“First explain to us exactly what you are talking about,” Anna Henrietta demanded. “Who is this Unseen? What is so dangerous about him?”

Orianna smirked, sending a smug look her way. “You’re really better off not knowing. It’s bad enough that Regis told the Witcher about him. I’ll not reveal any more on the matter.”

The Duchess lurched forward, stamping her foot on the stone. “Unacceptable! Whatever leverage you think you might have over us, if you wish for us to even consider making a deal with you, you will answer the question!”

“So we’re negotiating, then?” She smiled. “Good. But nothing you nor the Witcher can threaten me with could ever compare to what the Unseen would do if it came to light that I shared his secrets.”

Still glaring, Anarietta turned her focus to Geralt. “How about you? What can you tell us about this Unseen?”

An exhausted groan rumbled up from his chest and slid slowly out of his throat. “All Regis told me is that he’s one of the oldest and strongest vampires, one who existed long before the Conjunction of the Spheres. If anybody knows something about Gaunter O’Dimm that’s otherwise been lost to history, it’s him.”

“Now that you mention it, O’Dimm did say they were acquainted,” Orianna revealed, holding her index finger against her chin. “Though it’s possible I imagined that through all the pain.”

“That seals it then.”

“Well, have fun running to your death. I trust you still have the entry stone I gave you?”

Geralt crossed his arms. “Not so fast. You’re coming with me. That is, if you want us to accept your deal.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, a look of genuine terror appeared on Orianna’s face. “Go with you? I believe I’d rather face your silver sword. At least I can come back from that. But if the Elder grows displeased—and believe me, it doesn’t take more than accidentally kicking a pebble in his presence—then that’s it for me.”

“I get it,” he replied. “But unless I’m mistaken about your customs, I need another vampire to introduce me. And Regis isn’t here.”

“In that case, I’ve a condition of my own.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Her Grace shall accompany us.”

“What?!” Fringilla and Damien shouted in unison. Anarietta herself remained silent, but recoiled slightly.

Geralt swept his arm out horizontally, shaking his head. “Out of the question.”

“So you’ll risk my life but not hers? Interesting.”

“Risking my life too.”

“Lets not kid ourselves. Your life doesn’t mean that much to you, not after you’ve stared death in the face so many times. But if you’re asking me to stick my neck out for this fool’s errand, then I shall need some collateral. If you fail, she’ll die too. It’s the only way I’ll agree to this.”

“Enough of this farce!” Damien thundered, hand on his sword. “Your deception is obvious! You seek to arrange their deaths without having to get any blood on your own monstrous claws!”

“And I could care less what the Witcher gets up to these days, but no one threatens Anarietta and lives to tell about it,” said Fringilla. “Not even a vampire.”

She smirked, raising an intrigued eyebrow as she casually chuckled at their threats. Geralt stared hard at her, arms folded over his chest.

“So it’s as I thought. Very well. If you’ll not abide by my conditions, you can find your own way to the lair of the Unseen. If that’s everything…”

“I accept your terms.”

All of them whirled to stare at the Duchess, who stood there with her hands clasped together in front of her waist, having dropped the royal ‘we.’ She had said it so quietly that it took some of them a second to even notice. Damien’s nostrils flared, and his eyes grew wide as he boggled in her direction.

“But Your Grace…”

“I am not speaking as the Duchess of Toussaint,” she told him plainly, without emotion. “But rather as one whose sister was snatched away from her after just having been reunited. From what Orianna has said, Gaunter O’Dimm is the one responsible. If that is so, then I would like to know more about him too.”

“Can’t agree to that,” said Geralt. “I can’t protect you in there. Neither can all of your guards.”

“That is why I am releasing the Ducal Guard from their obligation to protect me for the duration of this mission,” she declared, her expression hard as steel. She held up a hand as Damien started to protest, and the words never left his mouth. “But if I may set a condition of my own, I would like Fringilla to come as well.”

“What?!”

She turned her head towards the sorceress. “I suspect we may have need of your magic in this endeavor.” Her gaze settled on Orianna. “But we shall discuss the specifics later, away from prying ears.”

Fringilla sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Fine. Can’t _bloede_ well let you go in there with just the Witcher to watch out for you.”

“Then it is settled. Shall we go there now, or do you require time to prepare?”

Geralt glared hard at Orianna, then moved his gaze over to the Duchess. “For the record,” he said, “I don’t like any of this. But I guess that’s what I get for making a deal with Gaunter O’Dimm. I need to grab something first. But tell me a place to meet and I’ll be there.”

“The docks near Seidhe Llygad should prove the quickest route to the Unseen Elder’s lair,” said Orianna, who now looked entertained to a concerning degree. She looked to Anna Henrietta. “If that’s alright with Her Grace?”

“It is,” the Duchess said curtly, eyes narrowed. “Let us convene there at sundown. If you are not present, or if this turns out to be a trap, then nothing in this world will stop me from having you destroyed.”

Orianna laughed. “I’ll make sure to be on time, then.”

* * *

“Any progress?” Yennefer asked as she re-shelved the book she’d finished skimming through, which detailed a surprisingly eventful feud between two families, one of whom had a unique strain of Elder Blood that resulted in a greater propensity towards madness and aggression. The whole thing came to a strange end when one of them lost control as their latent powers awoke, and the resulting cataclysm leveled an entire castle, killing everyone inside.

“Not much,” said Shani. “Apparently five hundred years ago a local lord in what would become Sodden had his men seek out and kidnap Elder Blood heirs so he could breed them together. When the peasants found out, they led a revolt against the castle, dragged out the lord and his whole family, then beheaded them all.”

“About as grisly as all the other stories we’ve heard,” she said. “What did they do with the Elder Blood heirs?”

“Killed them as well. This account claims it was agents of a rival warlord who planted the seeds of dissent, so he could then come in and claim the land. Even then the Elder Blood had a reputation for inviting misfortune.”

“Well that lord wasn’t the only one interested in taking Children of the Elder Blood for his own purposes,” said Dandelion. “I’m reading a mage’s account that says they had their eye on a young woman who ran away from home after a stablehand got her pregnant. By the time they tracked her down, she’d made a comfortable life for herself by marrying a rich merchant. But the baby was nowhere to be found.”

Yennefer and Shani exchanged a glance, then looked to Dandelion.

“Does it say what happened to the child?”

“The woman claimed she’d met someone while she was pregnant and destitute, who promised he could improve her circumstances in exchange for the child. She gave him to the stranger after the baby was born, and the child was never found.”

“That has to be O’Dimm,” said Yennefer. “Does it say who the woman was?”

“It doesn’t. Most likely the mage who wrote it wanted to keep others from going after her. But this all happened more than three hundred years ago. Whoever she was is lost to time.”

“Fine then. Who was the mage?”

“Hen Gedymeith. But he died—”

“At Thanedd. I was there.”

“But guess who went with him when they visited the woman?”

“Who?” asked Shani.

“Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.”

Yennefer scowled. “Shit.”

“Who’s Vilgefortz?”

“Remember Rience? The one who was hunting Ciri during the second war? Vilgefortz was his master.”

“I remember. He sent the Michelet brothers after Geralt, who slew them all and almost got Rience to confess. But Geralt was injured in the process and he got away.”

 “I knew Vilgefortz was older than most of us, but I had no idea he’d been seeking out Elder Blood heirs for that long. All things considered, it’s better that she gave the child away. If they’d found her earlier he’d probably have just cut it out of her without waiting for it to be born.”

Dandelion frowned. “So what do you figure Gaunter O’Dimm did with the child?”

“We have no way of knowing. But this confirms that he’s been interested in the Elder Blood for a long time.”

“So we have what we need, then?”

“In part. Remember though, that’s not the only reason we’re here.”

“Right. How exactly is that supposed to work, though? Asking them directly won’t get us anywhere, and we only really have access to the library. Besides, we haven’t even spoken with Francesca since the night you got here.”

“And even then, I got nothing from her,” said Yennefer. “But I suspect this all concerns the Aen Elle.”

Shani squinted with one eye. “What do you mean?”

“Ida claims that none of them saw the Wild Hunt cross the sky last night, which either means every elf in the area was completely engrossed in picking flowers for around thirty minutes last night, or she’s lying. We also know that Nilfgaard is massed near the border, and given how things turned out for the rest of the North I’d say the Aen Seidhe have good reason to be concerned. If you were them, who would you cut a deal with?”

“It makes sense,” admitted Dandelion. “But then why let _us_ in here?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. But I’ll need some way of moving around the rest of the palace unnoticed. That’s where you come in. You’re ever so distracting. What would you say to putting on a little… performance? Just something to keep them busy while I snoop around.”

A grin crept along his face. “Well, when you put it that way…” He adjusted his hat, puffing up his chest like a peacock, and Yennefer’s face disappeared into her palm, which didn’t deter him in the slightest. “How can I refuse?”

* * *

The door to the bedchamber opened, and Geralt scowled at the unicorn, which stubbornly continued to take up half the space between the bed and the far wall. He still hadn’t gotten around to moving it back up to the guest room, having preoccupied himself with searching for Orianna and trying to lift Guillaume’s curse. Though he loved Yennefer and everything that came with her, the unicorn continued to vex him for reasons he’d never really taken time to examine.

Maybe it was a good thing she’d held onto it all this time, though. It served as an ever-present reminder that to coexist with Yennefer of Vengerberg, it was important to know where to compromise.

Grumbling, he pressed further into the room, dropping to his knees and peering under the bed. He groped at a loose floorboard, and after a second it gave way, revealing the treasure hidden within. He stood up, entry stone in hand, and began to make his way out of the room, stopping only when he heard a slight rustle behind him.

“You know, I have to hand it to you both,” said Gaunter O’Dimm, sitting atop the unicorn, feet dangling over one side. “Many couples struggle to keep the magic alive after being together less than half the time that you and Yennefer have known each other, but somehow you’ve kept that fire burning all these years.” He ran a hand over the mane. “Does this really help?”

“Not about to tell you that.”

He nodded sagely. “Yes, I suppose we’ve more important things to discuss. Like what that entry stone unlocks.”

“Was this always the plan? I have to stand before an ancient vampire and somehow humble either a remorseless predator who feeds on children or a Duchess so spoiled she makes Keira Metz look reasonable?”

“You were the one who wanted to ask the vampires about me. I’m only giving you what you wished for.” Hopping down from the unicorn, he reached into the satchel on his right hip. “Speaking of which, in addition to that stone there, you’ll also need this.”

His hand held a pinkish-purple crystal, aragonite from the looks of it, which sparkled faintly and gave off a strong magical aura that caused his medallion to quiver. Geralt stared at it cautiously.

“For what?”

“When seeking an audience with an Unseen Elder, it’s customary to present a symbol of good faith. Like this one. You must also genuflect and say the following: ‘ _eclthi, lautni ama.’_ ”

Crossing his arms, Geralt craned his head back and narrowed his eyes. “Why tell me all this? I didn’t think you’d want to make this any easier for me.”

“Exact wording in a contract can work in your favor as well, you know. You specified that I had to make the challenge possible to overcome. Without this, there is no possibility of you being heard before the Unseen Elder tears you to shreds.”

“Guessing there’s still a catch, though.”

“I shall let you discover that for yourself. In the meantime…” He extended his arm further out, and Geralt took it carefully from his grasp. “There. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see how Yennefer is coming along. Anything you’d like me to convey to her?”

“Nothing I can’t tell her myself.”

“Have it your way. I wonder if she’ll be able to answer my earlier question.”

He walked past Geralt, who squinted at him with an exhausted, vaguely annoyed expression, pivoting as O’Dimm passed by, never taking his eyes off of him. O’Dimm stopped just before the threshold, and peered back over his shoulder, out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, and one more thing. Whatever you learn from the Unseen Elder, it won’t be enough to stop what’s already in motion. I’ve had this worked out since before witchers existed at all.”

With that, he turned the corner, and the sound of his footsteps abruptly stopped.


	42. Gathering Forces

“Well?” asked Anna Henrietta, now that she and Fringilla enjoyed a greater degree of privacy. “Would you be able to make more?”

They had retreated to the same entertainment room where she had first agreed to host the ball that led to all this insanity. If she had one wish, she would do it all again, but with the benefit of foresight to prevent so much of what went wrong.

Rolling her wrist back and forth, the sorceress squinted at the enchanted ribbon that she’d been handed. The corners of her mouth deepened into a frown.

“If I had a few weeks, perhaps. My father was a master of illusion magic to a degree I can only hope to achieve one day, and even he wouldn’t be able to do it in anything less than several days. That’s just how enchantment goes, I’m afraid.”

“And seeing as we have already set a deadline, it is too late to back out of the deal now.”

“You should be the one to wear it. The Witcher and I can defend ourselves, and if anything goes truly wrong I can teleport us away. I refuse to be frightened by some vampire.”

Anarietta frowned. “I would still advise caution. Surely you saw how Orianna reacted to the suggestion of meeting with this Unseen Elder. If even she fears him, it will not serve us well to go into this arrogantly.”

“On that we agree. Still, out of the three of us, you’re the most important. The Witcher’s prepared to lay down his life for this, and I only want to keep you safe. And bollocks to what Orianna wants.”

A slight smile crawled across her face.

“Are we ready to go then?”

“There are still a couple of hours before sundown,” said the Duchess. “And I would be very interested to hear how you and Sir Geralt became so estranged, especially since the last time he visited Toussaint you two were literally joined at the hip.”

Fringilla flashed a wicked grin, then shrugged. “It’s just like he said. I was assigned a mission by the Lodge, to keep him occupied and out of their way while they scoured the continent for Vilgefortz. Turned out the most efficient path to that goal was through his pants. When I learned he’d overheard a plot to overthrow His Imperial Majesty, and that he’d learned where Vilgefortz was hiding, I revealed the truth about what happened with Yennefer, thinking that would be enough to get him to trust me with the knowledge he’d obtained.”

She turned away, frowning. “And he played me for a fool.”

“We are heading into quite possibly the most dangerous place that any of us have ever been,” said Anarietta. “And we can afford no distractions. Promise me you will not allow your history with Sir Geralt to interfere with this mission.”

“With your life on the line? I would never.”

“Promise me.”

She nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“How long do you suppose this Unseen Elder’s been down there? Since the Conjunction perhaps?”

Anarietta clasped her hands in front of her, then moved over to a large window that overlooked the eastern side of Beauclair, the side bordering Seidhe Llygad. “I would imagine so. I have learned to trust Sir Geralt when it comes to information regarding monsters.”

“But if that’s true, then that means an entire community of vampires has been living right under our noses this whole time. Enough so that when this Dettlaff set them upon the city, it was completely overrun. What do you plan on doing about that?”

“After consulting with the Witcher, we decided to attempt a peaceful coexistence, beginning with Orianna,” she revealed. “After all, she had embedded herself into the local art societies and proved very useful as a political ally. But after learning that she was using an orphanage as little more than a wine cellar…”

“Why expect anything different from a  vampire? To my mind you should take the fight to them. Make sure they understand humans are off limits.”

The Duchess shook her head. “What purpose would that serve? We will not subject the people of this Duchy to such a conflict.”

“Then what’s your plan?”

“If this Unseen Elder has dominion over all vampires in the area, perhaps this mission can serve two purposes.” She stared out into the distance, and her hands fidgeted ever so slightly as she clasped them together in front of her waist. “We may be able to come to some sort of understanding.”

Fringilla stared at her skeptically. “You really think that’ll work?”

“If not, it is like you said. We can simply teleport away.”

There was no reply. Wordlessly, the sorceress joined her in staring out over the waters of Seidhe Llygad.

* * *

Priscilla sat by the campfire, alone for now. The dwarves were still conducting reconnaissance, and the others still occupied the library, working on some plan to find out what the elves were keeping from them. Meanwhile, all she could do was sit there and tune her lute, scowling at flowers.

She wasn’t resentful, not really. For the first few weeks after she’d recovered from her injuries, she’d still been able to speak, albeit more hoarsely than before, and she could hit lower notes while singing, which had genuinely thrilled Dandelion. She’d thought the worst of it was over.

Then, a month prior to where she found herself now, she’d lost the ability to sing at all, much less speak. The scars had gotten worse, and while it no longer felt like her throat was filled with boiling magma, she couldn’t produce a sound.

But she’d made her peace with that. What truly bothered her was that, while everyone bent over backwards to accommodate her, they seemed completely allergic to the idea of letting her actually contribute anything. Priscilla loathed being put on such a pedestal, but could only do so quietly. Dandelion devoted himself to her out of love, and she didn’t know the others that well, save for Zoltan. She felt like a flower in a vase, her stem cut short and made to subsist on water alone, instead of being free to grow in soil like the ones in the field around her. A fleeting beauty, captured and domesticated, doomed to wither and die no matter how long one wished to sustain it outside of its natural element.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a perfect metaphor for their relationship. But it had a certain poetry to it. It would make a lovely ballad.

She heard footsteps behind her, and glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. A man approached, dressed in blue and yellow, with two satchels strapped over opposite shoulders. He was completely bald, and wore an ominous smile. Her eyes widened a hair, and she inhaled sharply.

“No need to be concerned,” the man told her, continuing to walk until she no longer had to crane her neck to look at him. “I mean you no harm. In fact, I’d rather like to help you.”

Tilting her head, she raised one eyebrow curiously.

“Ah, yes. It won’t do us any good to go back and forth like this. Let me clear that up for you.”

He waved his hand, and a cool, refreshing wave, like the most delicious water she’d ever tasted, cascaded down her mouth and into her throat, where the constant, scratching pain to which she’d grown accustomed over the last few months, disappeared entirely. She gasped, long and loud, as though drawing air into her lungs for the very first time.

“What did you—?” She clapped her hands against her cheeks as understanding dawned. “I can talk? I can talk!”

Her voice sounded perfectly clear, even better than she remembered it before. The words flowed from her melodiously, and she couldn’t stop the smile that appeared on her face. The man smirked.

“You can do quite a bit more than that. It seemed a terrible shame to let such a beautiful voice go to waste. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she exclaimed, dropping the lute in her excitement as she scrambled to her feet. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, Mister…?”

He bowed with a flourish. “Gaunter O’Dimm. At your service.”

And just like that, her elation transmuted into cold dread. She stood there paralyzed, unsure of what to do next.

“I see you’ve heard of me. Rest assured, I’m nowhere near as awful as the stories claim. That those stories never have a happy ending… well, it’s not exactly fair to lay all the blame at my feet.”

“What do you want, Gaunter O’Dimm?”

“As I said, I wanted to help you, so I did.”

“But I’m guessing you want something in return.”

A sly grin crept across his features. “Indeed I do. I thought it best to show you what I’m capable of before making my proposal.” He began to pace around her in a circle. “I understand your lover brought you here in hopes that someone would perform a miracle. Now that I’ve done just that, there doesn’t seem to be much reason for you to stay, does there?”

Priscilla squinted at him. “That’s it? You just want us to leave?”

“Of course. This whole thing stretches far beyond you, anyway. War is coming, and you really don’t want to be caught in the middle of that, especially with a woman like Yennefer of Vengerberg. Has Dandelion told you much about her?”

“A few stories, nothing more,” she admitted. “But she seems nice enough.”

“That she does. But death and destruction follow her wherever she goes, because she doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. It’s better that you get out of here, while you still can.”

Crossing her arms, she stared hard at him. “I don’t see why I should trust you. The stories I’ve heard don’t exactly paint you as honest.”

“Trust me or not, you’re still caught in the middle of something that doesn’t have a happy ending for anyone involved. Don’t you care about Dandelion’s happiness? Or at least his safety?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Nothing ever is.” He interlaced his fingers together, holding his arms slightly in front of his chest. “I shall leave the decision up to you. A word of warning, though. We never had this conversation. You will tell no one the reason for your miraculous recovery, nor that I was here. If those words pass your lips, it’ll be the last sound you ever make.”

She had nothing to say in response. He walked behind her, out of view, and then he was gone.

* * *

“Something I’ve wondered,” said Vivienne as they sat on a blanket in the middle of the field, passing the time with wine and conversation. Guillaume was currently tugging at the corners of the blanket, but failing to do much more than occasionally tear off a few threads. “Where are Sir Guillaume’s parents? You are the only family of his that I have met.”

Palmerin downed a sip of wine before responding. “With my duties as a Knight Errant taking up all of my time, I leave the running of my Barony to my sister and her husband. The day to day minutiae of ruling has never quite appealed to me, and the life I lead is far more satisfying. I suspect that is what led Guillaume down the path to becoming a Knight Errant as well.”

“That or he believed in too many fairy tales.”

“In this Duchy that can hardly be considered a bad thing. Her Grace is far more obsessed with them, as I am sure you’ve noticed.”

Vivienne nodded. “As a child they appealed to me as well. I saw much of myself in those stories of maidens trapped in towers, guarded by some horrendous beast. But as my curse progressed, I began to identify more with the monsters. Often the knights showed up and slaughtered them without giving a thought as to what goals or ambitions such a creature might have. Eventually I lost interest in those stories.”

“Before meeting Sir Geralt I never gave the inner lives of monsters a second thought either,” he admitted. “But he had pity for the Shaelmaar, and only slew it to release it from its misery. He also hatched a plan to end the killings by exposing the Beast of Beauclair’s blackmailers. As humans we too often think only of ourselves, never considering how our actions affect the lives of others.”

Their eyes fell upon Guillaume, who had flopped over onto his back, exposing his belly. Upon seeing their attention turn to him, he rolled to his feet and clambered onto Vivienne’s lap, pressing his front paws against her thigh. She sighed and reached out her hand, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears.

“Do you recall how long Sir Geralt said this was supposed to take?”

“He said to come find him if the curse had not lifted by sundown,” said Palmerin. “But that’s still an hour or so off. Have faith. The Witcher knows his craft.”

“I am sure he does. But I do not know how much longer I am capable of enduring this. It all seems like such a farce.”

He chuckled. “Like a fairy tale, you mean?”

Her eyes narrowed, boring into him, but she couldn’t stop a smile from emerging.

“Just be patient,” he encouraged. “I believe everything will work out in the end.”

* * *

Ida Emean aep Sivney stood in her laboratory, half of which could be more accurately described as a greenhouse, quirking her lips to the side as she wiped away a single bead of sweat. Staring at a carnation in front of her, she reached out a finger and poked it, waiting for some response. After a moment, the petals spread out and bloomed. Ida stood up straight, crossing her arms in satisfaction.

A loud crash spoiled the mood, and her mouth settled into a deep frown. Sighing, she trundled across the lab, out the door, and into the large courtyard, where she found more or less exactly what she was expecting.

The naiad statue overlooking the fountain had cracked and toppled over, somehow missing the goldfish. At the base of the destruction was Dandelion, who was soaked from head to toe. Shani stood in front of him, having buried her entire face in the palm of one hand. Dandelion finally noticed her standing there, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“Oh, Ida! Hi.”

“What, pray tell, is the meaning of this?’

His eyes traveled over to the statue, then sheepishly returned to meet her gaze. “Oh, that. It’s all a giant misunderstanding, that I can totally clear up if you give me a few moments to explain.”

“Very well.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well you see, I wanted to see the view from the top of that statue, so I climbed onto it. How was I supposed to know it wouldn’t support my weight?”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” said Shani. “But he insisted.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ida looked over the remains of the statue and the soaked troubadour in front of her. “Do you have the slightest idea how old that statue was? How painstaking it was to carve? And you decided to just climb on top of it?”

He nodded.

A low grumble began in her chest before spilling up out of her throat. “I am not in the habit of getting angry. Truth be told, I didn’t value that statue at all, though Francesca was rather fond of it. But it has become more and more evident over the last two weeks that you have no respect for anything. It’s not just that you’re _dh’oine_ ; your red-haired friend here has no difficulty keeping her hands to herself, without destroying centuries-old stonework.”

“I resent that,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “I’m perfectly capable of behaving myself. You’re the ones who look down on all of us no matter what we do.”

“So this is your way of proving me wrong, then?”

By this time, a small crowd of elves had gathered to watch the confrontation. While their faces betrayed no emotion, their eyes showed faint hints of amusement. Dandelion stood his ground, with goldfish swarming around his ankles.

“Enough with the superiority complex,” he said. “We get it already. You were here first, so you think that makes you better than us humans. But you’re just as capable of doing everything you look down on us for, so don’t pretend like you’re above it all.”

She inclined her head forward, staring wearily at him. “Is there a reason for all of this to come out now, or is it only meant to distract me?” She scanned round, moving her head back and forth. “And where’s Yennefer?”

“Look, Dandelion’s sorry for breaking the statue, and he’ll pay to replace it,” said Shani, stepping forward. “Won’t you?”

“I will do no such—” His bravado evaporated upon meeting her glare. “Yes.”

“Good. Terribly sorry for the interruption. We’ll be going now.”

They turned around and started to book it. Ida glared after them.

“Not so fast.”

Shani and Dandelion stopped in their tracks, turning back to face her. She held up her hands and began reciting an incantation.

“ _Adfer, dod yn yr hyn yr oeddech chi. Dioddef am byth._ ”

The shattered stones of the statue rose from the water, and the statue reformed before their very eyes, held together by lines of arcane energy before, with a great flash, the pieces solidified into a united whole. Ida lowered her arms back down, then exhaled slowly.

“We require nothing from you,” she said, glaring daggers at Dandelion. “You are the one who came to us for help. If you do not like the manner in which you are treated, you are free to leave at any time.”

With that, she turned around and began walking back to her lab. The crowd of elves dispersed and returned to their business, leaving Shani and Dandelion on their own.

“Do you think that bought her enough time?” Shani whispered, leaning in and shielding her mouth with one hand.

“We can only hope. Let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

Yennefer had, of course, been waiting just outside the doorway to Ida’s lab, hidden off to the side behind a pillar. It served as the entry point to the catacombs below the palace, a choke-point of sorts. If they were keeping any secrets, they would likely be down here.

She crept quietly through the lab, quickly taking stock of various potions, books, and herbs that Ida had arranged chaotically across her workspace. The other half of the room was essentially a garden, and the door she needed to access was right between a couple of Eucalyptus trees. They were an exotic breed from Zerrikania, not native to this land. Yennefer knew that the oil produced by the trees was flammable enough that they would explode when set ablaze, which was how they spread their seeds. A handy security measure if one wanted to quickly destroy all their secrets to prevent them falling into the hands of others.

Nothing else was guarding the door, so after uttering a brief spell to check for magical wards, the sorceress ducked passed through it quickly, where she was immediately met with a long, descending staircase. She had cast a spell on her boots so they did not make a sound when they otherwise would have clacked against the hard stone, and her penchant for black outfits worked well in the darkness. Green phosphorescent crystals had been set into sconces along the walls, forming pools of light that she skirted around, crouched over, hood drawn up.

She encountered no sentries, which wasn’t particularly odd. Elves had different sensibilities when it came to security, and most of their number were out patrolling the forests keeping watch against Nilfgaard. As she progressed down the hallway, Yennefer stood up straight, proceeding unmolested on her way towards her goal.

Various doors dotted the hallway on either side, and Yennefer peeked into each of them briefly, finding them unoccupied. Most of them were either storerooms or just plain empty space, and she didn’t linger for very long. Eventually she reached the prison cells.

These proved to be empty as well, since elves weren’t big on capturing and looking after their enemies, preferring instead to kill them on the spot. At least that proved the case with the Aen Seidhe. Their brethren from another world were a different story entirely, to which she could personally attest.

Right on cue, she heard a loud scream from the end of the hallway, around the corner. She didn’t hurry, proceeding cautiously through the dungeon before, after a minute or so, she found the source of the noise.

The room wasn’t very large, roughly thirty feet across, encased in black stone. She saw a figure manacled to the wall, grimacing in fear as two golden ocelots, larger than their wild brethren, snarled and tugged on their leashes, held by an elf who stared pitilessly at the chained man.

Yennefer frowned. Even from behind, she recognized Enid an Gleanna, the Daisy of the Valleys, also known as the sorceress Francesca Findabair. She was regarded by many to be the most beautiful woman in the world, and as far as she was concerned, none of them were wrong. But like many things in nature, beauty could conceal something harsh and unforgiving.

“Please My Lady, as I have told you a thousand times, I know nothing more! Count van Der Hooueven claimed that we were to secure the border against possible attack. But so far as I can tell, no orders came from on high. Please, that’s all I know!”

“First of all, while I care little for human customs, the proper address for a Queen is ‘Your Majesty,’” Francesca said coldly. “Do not forget that it was your Emperor who first recognized my people’s sovereignty. Secondly, what do you mean there were no orders? Are you saying this Count van Der Hooueven came up with it himself?”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” the man said, bowing his head and staring fearfully at the ocelots. “It’s not like I regularly broke bread with the man. I’m near the bottom of the totem pole; I don’t get to know most of what’s going on. But this is completely contrary to the orders we’d received only a week before. I’m not the only man who noticed.”

“Just the only one who got caught.”

“Well how was I supposed to know you’d have your people grab me while I was taking a piss? They didn’t even let me finish!”

“Be grateful they didn’t cut your throat. Now Sergeant, are you positive that’s all you observed?”

He nodded, then managed to tear his eyes away from the ocelots long enough for his eyes to locate the other person in the room.

“Ah, Yennefer,” said Francesca, without turning around. “It’s good you’re here. Perhaps you can be of some assistance.”

Rolling her eyes, Yennefer didn’t even bother questioning how the elf had known she was there. “What’s the meaning of this, Francesca? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were torturing a man.”

“I’ve not laid a finger on him, in fact,” she said, then gestured to the ocelots. “Just instilled a bit of fear. He’s actually been quite forthcoming. But it never hurts to be thorough.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Have you considered that he’s only telling you what you want to hear so you’ll let him go? There’s no reason to trust anything he just said.”

“My thoughts exactly. Which is why I feel we should try a different approach.”

“No, please, I’m telling the truth. I swear it on my dearly departed mother!”

Yennefer glared. “Whenever you lie, your nose crinkles just a bit, and your cheeks grow flush. I’m willing to wager your mother’s still alive and very, very disappointed in you.”

He couldn’t quite shrug in his position, and tilted his head to the side instead. “Fair enough.”

“I’ve never been very good at reading the minds of humans,” Francesca confessed. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”

“And why should I? What investment could I possibly have in this affair?”

She smiled. “Ida told me why you needed my library. It just so happens I know a thing or two that might help you. Don’t think of it as doing a favor for me. Ultimately, all of this is in service of rescuing Cirilla. Just like everything else you’ve done.”

Yennefer scowled.

“Help me find out what I need to know, and I’ll give you a piece of information in exchange,” she continued. “It’s not like you haven’t done worse.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, walking closer to the man, who recoiled in fear. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”

“Bartholomew Cordovis, Sergeant in the Black Infantry. At your service, not that I really have a choice in the matter.”

“You realize it’s not possible to lie to me, don’t you Sergeant? I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about all the wicked sorceresses of the world, stealing men’s thoughts and driving them to madness. Before we continue, I want you to know it’s all true.”

He stared at her, then shook his head. “Got nothing against sorceresses, actually. My great aunt on my mother’s side was a sorceress from Nazair. No one’s quite sure how she died, but it happened on a visit to the North, long before the wars.”

Yennefer blinked, unable to continue with her current angle of attack. She decided to roll with this new development. “In that case, let it be known that I can still read your thoughts.”

“I’ll volunteer ‘em gladly, My Lady.” He cringed. “Or is that not your proper title either?”

“It’ll do. Now tell me, is anything you said true?”

He nodded vigorously. “Count Reginald van Der Hooueven. He’s the one who came up with this cock-eyed plan. The man comes from a long line of conmen and swindlers, and somehow obtained some measure of nobility. He bought a plot of land that afforded him the title of Count, along with his military commission, though no one’s quite sure how he got the money for it all in the first place. Me and the other men suspect he’s doing this as some kind of vanity project.”

“Meaning his actions here run counter to the Emperor’s wishes?”

“I don’t claim to know the wishes of Emperors, My Lady. Though I suppose you do, having served under him and all.”

She craned her neck back. “So you know who I am?”

“Her Majesty over there called you Yennefer,” he replied. “As in Yennefer of Vengerberg, who served as Court Sorceress to His Imperial Majesty during the third Northern War. Everybody’s heard of you.”

Yennefer couldn’t stop the faint smirk of pride that appeared on her lips. She turned back to Francesca. “He’s telling the truth. And I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“The challenge given to me by Gaunter O’Dimm states that I must confront an old ally, and sacrifice myself to prevent a war,” she said. “It seems I must dissuade this Count van Der Hooueven from launching an invasion against Dol Blathanna for what appears to be no reason other than to prove he can do it.” She gestured behind her using her head. “And this man could be my way in.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow. “Come again? Are you asking me to release a prisoner to you?”

“Indeed. It’s not like I can just walk up to this encampment and demand to speak with the person in charge. I need someone to introduce me. I wish only to parlay on your behalf, not betray you. Otherwise I’d just let this whole affair play out on its own.”

Placing a finger to her chin, the elf considered that.

“Truth be told, I wouldn’t trust me either,” said Sergeant Cordovis, and they both turned to glare at him. He shrunk back.

“Very well. I shall give him to you, on one condition. If, when you meet this Count van Der Hooueven, he does not agree to leave in peace and never return, you are to eliminate him as a problem.” Her features hardened. “By any means necessary.”

Yennefer stared at her incredulously. “You can’t be serious. If I kill him or teleport him all the way to Zerrikania, his men would still carry out the invasion.”

“Are you quite certain? This one here doesn’t seem that fond of him.”

“Yet even if I were to explain my reasons, none of them would trust the word of someone who eliminated their commander.” She turned to Sergeant Cordovis. “Am I right?”

He nodded. “I’ll cooperate with you if it gets me out of here, but my first loyalty is still to Nilfgaard. No matter who’s giving me orders. Same with all the men in that battalion.”

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t give him to you,” said Francesca. “But you did help me ascertain that he was being honest, so I’ll still hold up my end of the bargain and tell you what you need to know. That’s all you’re really here for, isn’t it?”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. Did she really care what happened to the elves? Was Nilfgaard really the old ally she was meant to confront? She spent the next minute or so considering her logical next move, but ultimately kept coming back to the same conclusion.

“Regardless of our history, I don’t want to see this place get wiped off the map,” she replied. “Which _will_ happen, even if you do defeat the army currently at your borders. Because there will always be more, and even if the Emperor didn’t intend to start such a war, you can be damn sure he’ll want to finish it. I can prevent it before it ever starts.”

“I don’t expect you to assassinate him,” said Francesca. “Nor teleport him somewhere far away. But you must make certain that an invasion does not come to pass. I will not see any more of my people bleed at the hands of humankind. If it comes down to it, I expect you to do whatever it takes to ensure that.”

She nodded. “You have my word.”

“Then this man is yours.” With a wave of her hand, the manacles were released, and he crumpled to the floor like a pile of toothpicks. “I can only hope you know what you’re doing.”

“And my information?”

“Ah, yes. There was a tome that Dandelion found, which described a certain young woman who gave birth to a bastard that was gone by the time Hen Gedymeith and Vilgefortz tracked her down. That story has more relevance to your current circumstances than you can imagine.”

Yennefer tilted her head to the side. “That only happened an hour ago. Have you been spying on us this entire time?”

The Queen laughed. “How else do you think I knew you were coming down here?”

“Fair enough.”

“At any rate, the mysterious stranger that woman met wasn’t the Man of Glass. But he was still someone you know.”

“How would you know that?”

“It wasn’t just those two who went to visit her,” she said. “I was there as well. She described the one who approached her in detail, and I recognized who she was talking about.”

“So who was it?”

“Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha,” she revealed. “But you know him better as Avallac’h.”

There weren’t many things that could cause Yennefer of Vengerberg to recoil in shock, but she still took a step back. “You’re serious?”

“Very. I have foreseen that your destiny and that of the child he took are intertwined, along with a certain red-haired fox. Assuming you live through this next part, you’ll all meet each other very soon.”

Yennefer’s gloved hand found her chin. “Then that means…”

“That Triss Merigold is alive, yes. You will see her again. But as for what happens after that… it’s as they say. The future is always in motion.”

“Thank you, Francesca,” she said. “For everything. I promise I won’t let any harm befall your people.”

She nodded. “There’s more to this story, you know. I’ll be waiting to tell it to you when you return.”

A few moments of silence passed as Yennefer stared at her, before turning to the Nilfgaardian on the floor, who was closely watching the ocelots. “Very well, then. On your feet. You’ve got an important job to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this update, this story has officially surpassed 200,000 words. My other fic just reached its first 100k milestone as well, which is part of why I moved my update schedule to publish both of them on the same day. We're about 3/4 of the way through the story as planned, though it may take anothe 100k words just to tell all of it. This story is so sprawling that I can basically take ideas for other stories and roll them into it rather than start a dozen projects that I'll never finish.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me for this far. You're all the real MVPs. As always, comments are appreciated.


	43. Point of No Return

The last time he’d stood at the boat landing near the palace in Beauclair, Geralt had done so in the rain, with the city burning and people screaming in the background as an army of vampires laid waste to everything around them. Now, with the sun still slightly above the horizon, all that greeted him were tranquil waters and the lazy squawking of the gulls. That somehow unsettled him more, and not just because Regis wasn’t here.

He heard a puff behind him, and Orianna emerged from the mist. He nodded to her, and she joined him in staring at the water.

“It’s not too late to back out, you know.” She clasped her hands together in front of her waist. “You managed to cut down Dettlaff, but make one false move in front of The Unseen, and you’ll be dead before you even realize what the mistake was.”

“Been meaning to ask you,” he replied, ignoring the threat. “Why haven’t you tried to kill me over that? Or the Duchess, since she’s the one who put out the contract? Why’d you go after Syanna and not either of us?”

“I told you: I’d not have gone after her at all were my judgment not impaired. I’m a bit vengeful by nature, true, but never so hands on about it. Why else would I have enlisted your help slaying the Garkain that butchered my children?”

“First off, they weren’t your children. You were using them as your personal wine cellar. Not to mention Regis had to leave after finishing what I started with Dettlaff, so I know you can’t kill other vampires yourself.”

“Killing lesser vampires isn’t taboo at all, actually.” The corners of her lips turned upward in a small grin. “It’s the only way to keep them in line, honestly. If a dog becomes rabid, what do you do with it? You put it out of its misery so it doesn’t spread its sickness to others.”

“But Dettlaff was different somehow?”

“Dettlaff could think for himself,” she pointed out. “He made choices that put him in that situation, then you and Regis finished it. I don’t blame you for defending yourself. Nor do I blame Her Grace for demanding his head. It’s the only response one could expect from someone who cares about her people to the degree she does.”

“But you blame Syanna.”

“For manipulating him and setting the whole affair in motion, naturally. But I was a pawn in Gaunter O’Dimm’s game as much as any of you.” She smirked. “I’m just not afraid to admit it.”

“Could be. Or you could be playing a longer game.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the condition you imposed,” he replied. “The Duchess has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t she? It was her sister that went missing, and as you mentioned yourself, she set you in pursuit of Dettlaff. I don’t blame either of you for any of it, but I can’t speak for The Unseen.”

“That really your plan, then? Put us both in front of an ancient vampire and hope he butchers us so you can have your revenge?” He shook his head. “I don’t buy it. That’s way too simple for someone who’s been alive as long as you have.”

“To be honest I was trying to set a condition so absurd you’d call off the whole thing. I wasn’t expecting her to agree any more than you were.”

“And now you’re in too deep to back out now.”

“As are the rest of you.” She chuckled. “They’ll be here soon. I can hear Her Grace’s heartbeat from here. She doesn’t smell afraid.”

“You do.”

“Well why wouldn’t I be? All of the Unseen are powerful enough to kill even the likes of me without retribution. And this one will not hesitate in doing so if I so much as cough at the wrong moment.”

“What are the Unseen anyway? If I’m as likely to die as you claim, then there’s no harm in telling me, right?”

Her teeth flashed as she laughed. “I suppose not. The Unseen are the oldest of us, born of strong bloodlines that ruled the old world. The older a higher vampire gets, the more powerful they become, but there are limits to how far that power can go. The talent has to be there from the start, and the stronger it is at the beginning, the more it grows exponentially later on.”

“Meaning it’d be like fighting a hundred Dettlaffs?”

“More like the only individual you’ve met with more power is the Man of Glass. But that one is on another level entirely.”

Geralt nodded, crossing his arms. “If you’re that afraid of meeting him, you could just tell me something I don’t know about Gaunter O’Dimm.”

“Nothing that will prove useful to you, I fear. You already know the important parts. I’m afraid my encounter with him outside of Syanna’s cell is the only time we’ve ever met. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t so.”

“But he has a history with the vampires?”

Orianna shrugged. “No one knows for sure, but there are rumors that he and the Unseen of this region made a deal thousands of years ago, just after the Conjunction. I don’t know the nature of it, but it does mean you’re at a disadvantage here.”

The crystal weighed heavily against his back pouch in that moment, and he squinted.

Like I said,” she continued. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

“It was too late the moment I made the pact,” he replied. “And besides:  I’m not afraid of standing in front of a monster. No witcher’s ever died in his bed.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

They continued watching the sunset, waiting for the others to arrive.

* * *

Gradually, like waves lapping at a shore, they returned to the campsite in groups. First were the dwarves, who could be heard bickering so loudly it made one wonder how they had remained undetected by the Nilfgaardian camp. They settled around the fire and began to cook dinner, and Priscilla silently joined them.

Next, it was Dandelion and Shani who found their way back. In typical fashion, he was attempting to awe her with an anecdote while she walked alongside him, smiling just enough to be polite. They joined the others around the fire, and made small talk while the dwarves continued cooking their meal. Dandelion started playing the lute, and Priscilla smiled along. On most nights such as this there would be drinking, dancing, and cards, but everyone had business on their minds.

Yennefer didn’t arrive until much later, and she had a stranger in tow. He wore Nilfgaardian armor, somewhat unkempt, and looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

“Hello everyone,” said Yennefer. “I see you’ve started the party without me.”

Zoltan stared cautiously at the man next to her. “And who’s this?”

“Sergeant Bartholomew Cordovis, at your service,” the man said, genuflecting gracefully. “And don’t worry about sharing; I’ve had enough of this place’s hospitality.”

“He’s part of a plan I’ve cooked up,” said Yennefer. “Or rather one that’s in the process of marinating. The finer details will depend greatly on what the rest of you learned.”

He nodded. “Aye, I suspect they will.”

They took their places around the campfire, and Zoltan stood over a small patch of dirt with a stick, which he had used to etch a crude map.

“It’s a standard Nilfgaardian camp,” he began. “Barracks are towards the center, and the Commander’s tent is smack in the middle. I dinnae know if it’s because he thinks himself the center of the universe or if he just wants as many men between him and the enemy as possible, but the bugger sure is sittin’ pretty.”

“His name is Count Reginald van Der Hooueven,” Sergeant Cordovis volunteered. “And the camp isn’t up to code. He bought his military commission, but before that he never served a day in his life.”

“Apparently the whole battalion is here against orders,” said Yennefer. “Whether it’s just a vanity project or part of some larger plan I can’t be sure, but that makes their next move a touch less predictable.”

“And how can we trust this information?” asked Dandelion. “I can’t be the only one who finds it a little odd that we’re letting a man none of us have met sit in on a meeting like this.”

“The information he possesses is invaluable,” she replied. “And the parameters of Gaunter O’Dimm’s challenge have become more clear. I plan to parlay with this Count van Der Hooueven on behalf of the Aen Seidhe, and I need this man to get inside the camp without catching a halberd in the gut. Francesca’s loaned him to me for that purpose.”

“I’d still feel more comfortable if he sat somewhere else while we discuss this. Gives him less information to betray us with later.”

Sergeant Cordovis shrugged. “He’s got a point. I can stand over there. Just holler if you need something clarified.”

She nodded, then looked to Zoltan. “Can one of you keep an eye on him?”

One of the dwarves in the back moved silently out of formation, escorting the Nilfgaardian safely out of earshot, by a copse of trees. Yennefer folded her arms over her chest and turned to Dandelion. “Satisfied?”

“Immensely.”

“Then let’s move on. The situation is this: Francesca has instructed me to make sure the Nilfgaardians leave peacefully and never return. Failing that, I should be prepared to handle the situation ‘by any means necessary,’ in her words.”

“You mean kill him? That’d certainly be the fastest way.”

“Or teleport the bugger right over the sea near Skellige,” suggested Zoltan. “Let ‘im choose b’tween drownin’ or bein’ gutted like a fish.”

“No to both of those options,” she replied. “In either scenario the battalion would carry out their original orders and assault Dol Blathanna, only without anyone to rein them in. And even if we do repel them, it still means the challenge is failed.”

“So then what?” asked Dandelion.

“Compelling him with magic seems the best course of action, though it would be difficult to perform in front of guards, which he’ll no doubt have when meeting with a sorceress. I’d need a distraction; something to ensure that he ends up alone in a room with me so I can cast a spell without anyone else cottoning on.”

“Yarpen and the boys had the bright idea of lightin’ their oil reserves,” suggested Zoltan. “Though if they suspect sabotage, then that means war gets declared no matter how well you bewitch the bastard.”

“I agree; antagonizing the remainder of the force directly is out of the question.” She glanced to Dandelion. “And I doubt a traveling troubadour’s performance will bring his personal guards running either. This is going to require some thought.”

“What if I were in the room with you?” the bard suggested. “You could tell them I’m your co-negotiator, given my history with the elves in the area. I could feign some sort of illness and faint, then while everyone’s focused on me, you could cast your spell without any of them noticing.”

She curled a finger and held it against the underside of her chin as she paced. “That could work. You’re a convincing actor when the situation calls for it.  I’ve lost track of how many stories Geralt’s told me of how you bluffed your way out of encounters that otherwise would have required his sword.”

“Don’t forget, you were there for a few of those. Though the one with the golden dragon could have gone better.”

“Yes, funny how your biting wit vanished entirely at the sight of my naked chest.”

His face turned flush, and he peeked towards Priscilla out of the corner of his eye. He needn’t have worried. The blonde trobairitz appeared deep in thought, but not entirely oblivious to the conversation. Yennefer’s eyes narrowed slightly as she detected… hesitation.

“At any rate,” she continued, “we must have a contingency in place if things go south. An exit strategy, if you will. I don’t exactly relish the idea of failing the challenge, but I’d rather it not result in my untimely demise. That would just be embarrassing.”

“If things turn that way, just conjure up one of your little black birds,” said Zoltan. “Or find some other way of sending a signal. Me and the lads can be standin’ by in the woods, ready to move.”

She nodded. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“If you’re looking to play possum in the presence of men who’ll be rightly suspicious of you, you’ll need more than just your theater skills,” said Shani, moving closer to Dandelion. “I’ve several substances on hand that could convincingly fake anything from a seizure to a heart attack, without actually putting your life in danger.”

“Good idea,” said Yennefer. “We can take no chances in this endeavor.”

“Agreed. The concoctions can still be a trifle dangerous, so I’d prefer to be present just in case. That would also afford us greater control over the situation, since most people defer to a doctor in the case of a medical emergency. I may even be able to convince them to clear the room.”

Dandelion squinted with one eye. “Hold on. How dangerous are these substances?”

“Not at all, in the right doses. You’d still be acting out all the symptoms, but I can make you foam at the mouth or fake a high fever. Enough to fool anyone who doesn’t have medical training.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, while Geralt and I have a surprising amount in common, I didn’t go through any witcher mutations,” he said. “If this stuff has a chance of poisoning me, I’d prefer to test it out here before we try it for real.”

“Suit yourself. We can have a practice run later on, once we’ve finalized the plan.”

Yennefer crossed her arms and nodded, impressed. “And here I thought you’d chicken out at the first mention of something like this.”

“I’m willing to risk a lot when it comes to my friends. But not blindly.”

“It’s appreciated, in any case.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Well if no one else has anything to add, let’s recap. Using the Sergeant over there, I will gain entry to the Nilfgaardian camp and meet with their commander. If he cannot be persuaded to leave peacefully and never return, I shall compel him to do so using a spell. It’s rather similar to a witcher’s sign of Axii, only a great deal more powerful.”

She began to pace, gesticulating with her hands. “To pull this off without being arousing suspicion, Dandelion will collapse, aided by Shani’s concoction, and feign a seizure. In the best case scenario, we can get the guards out of the room, leaving me with a brief opportunity to cast the spell. If not, I suppose I’ll have to make do. Zoltan and the others will surround the camp in the meantime, and will move in only if I give the signal. Is that clear?”

They all nodded.

“Excellent. We’ll strike out in two hours. Until then, take whatever measures you need to prepare.”

“Alright, then.” Dandelion turned to Shani. “Let’s see what those herbs of yours can do.”

“Dandelion.”

There was a pause. Slowly, all of them turned to face the source of the voice that, until now, had not been part of the conversation. Priscilla set her jaw solemnly and stood up, making her way closer to the bard, who stood there with his mouth agape, speechless for once in his life, if only for a moment.

“Priscilla? But… how… what? How long have you been able to talk?”

“For a while now.” Her eyes did not meet his, rooted instead to a patch of flowers off to her left. “I’ve listened as long as I could, but I can’t let you do this. It’s too dangerous.”

He stared at her in disbelief, shifting slightly to the side to try and catch her gaze, but she averted her eyes to the other side instead. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, trying to process this betrayal and failing miserably, by Yennefer’s estimation.

“Why keep this from me until now?”

“I wanted to tell you much earlier,” she began, still keeping her eyes glued to the ground. “But you’d gone to all this trouble for me, and it’s been a while since we’ve truly gotten away from the city. I didn’t see the harm in letting you help your sorceress friend when it was just some research, but this is something else entirely.”

Yennefer squinted as she carefully analyzed Priscilla’s behavior, but said nothing.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he finally responded, pacing in front of her before coming to an abrupt halt. “Hearing you talk again, it… it fills me with so much joy I don’t know whether to jump up and down or hurl myself down a hill.”

“Why not just come home? You’ve done enough already; let’s head back to Novigrad and forget about all this.”

He reeled back, her words battering him like heavy fists. “The Priscilla I fell in love with would never abandon people who need help. Do you know what another war will do to this area? There are hardly any elves left in the world, and the ones here will all be wiped out if Nilfgaard invades. Not to mention I owe Yennefer a hundred times over for all the occasions she and Geralt have saved my perfectly sculpted hiney. I can’t just walk away from this.”

“But this isn’t what you came here for! You wanted to find a cure for me, and I’m all better now. Isn’t that enough?”

Narrowing his eyes, Dandelion stepped closer. “Now I see. We set out from Novigrad. You know what lives in the land surrounding the city? Dopplers!” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “What have you done with the real Priscilla? Where is my darling Callonetta?”

Her palm collided with his face like a thunderclap, and he staggered back, clutching his wounded cheek. Priscilla stood there, glaring furiously.

“How dare you! After everything we’ve been through together, how can you doubt that it’s really me?”

“Because from what Dandelion has told us, your esophagus was severely damaged by formaldehyde,” said Yennefer, sparing him from having to answer. “Even when your voice did return briefly, it had a much lower register, and sounded scratchier than before. But now, miraculously, you sound perfect.”

Crossing her arms, Priscilla stared at both of them with eyes half lidded. “You forget. I know just as much about dopplers as either of you. Dudu told me all the secrets.” Walking over to one of the travel bags, she reached inside and produced a medium goblet, gripping it with her bare hands. “If I were a doppler, then how could I touch silver with nary a reaction?”

They both exchanged a glance, then turned back to face her. “Okay, you’ve got us there. Sorry I doubted you.”

“Apology accepted.”

“But seriously, how _did_ your voice get healed so perfectly? And where’s all this really coming from? I’m worried, Priscilla.”

She frowned, turning her back to them both. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, alright!” She spun around to face him. “Please, Dandelion. Don’t put your life in danger. Not for this.”

“I…”

“It’s fine,” said Yennefer, waving a hand in front of her face. “The challenge is mine alone. I never should have asked this of you in the first place.”

“And I may not have your acting chops, but I can play a fainting damsel just fine,” said Shani. “You don’t have to stick your neck out for this.”

“Neither do you! But you’re doing it anyway!” He gestured to Zoltan. “And so are you!”

The dwarf nodded solemnly. “Aye, but we’ve only ourselves to answer to. You’ve got someone else to consider. If she’s urgin’ ye not to do this, you’d be a fool not to listen to ‘er.”

Dandelion glanced briefly over the other dwarves, who all shrugged and muttered amongst themselves before scattering off in different directions. Sighing resignedly, he made his way back over to Priscilla. “Fine. You win. Let’s go home.”

She said nothing further, nodding solemnly before taking his hand in hers and leading him off, away from the campsite. Yennefer stared after them, eyes narrowed, and continued to do so as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit short considering the amount of time it's been since the last update, but honestly I took a break from writing in general because maintaining my previous schedule was just too stressful. As I've stated elsewhere, the new update policy is this: if I have something ready on Sunday, it will be posted on Sunday. If it's ready at any other point in the week, I'll wait until Sunday to post it. Hopefully this works better.
> 
> This is the last of the setup before we get to the real action in this arc, so I wanted to take a moment to breathe before the shit hits the fan. Let me know what you think.


End file.
